Wild Night
by This Is Melodrama
Summary: Six months. The next six months had changed everything. But for Ella Mitchell, being with Dallas Winston felt like freedom. (Sequel to "Green Light")
1. Summertime Blues

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Eddie Cochran owns "Summertime Blues."**

* * *

 _I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler_

 _About a-workin' all Summer just to try to earn a dollar_

 **June 25, 1966**

It was boiling out.

Dallas could feel the heat hot on his skin, the sun's rays scorching his arms and face as beads of sweat glistened on any visible part of his body. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he swept his damp hair out of his eyes, licking his lips to moisten them. Good Lord, but it was sweltering, and the blond-headed teen wished that he wasn't the only one mucking up horse shit and cleaning out stalls that day. But he really hadn't expected much help to begin with, considering that Buck was keeping things hushed up, like the fact that he was bootlegging horses again.

It had been three weeks since Dallas had gotten out of that blasted hell-hole, otherwise known as Will Rogers High School, and he'd been doing absolutely nothing worthwhile, save for cleaning the horse stalls, playing bartender three nights a week at Buck's, and jockeying. It wasn't what he really saw himself doing as permanent jobs, but he needed the dough and this was as good as it got, so he kept his trap shut and continued to work. Buck had been a real pain in his ass lately, mostly because he'd been drinking more and more with each passing day. Dally had always been able to handle the older cowboy, push him around to keep him in his place, but Buck had been pushing him harder, too, and Dallas was getting aggravated.

Speaking of which . . .

The sound of a truck pulling up brought the hood back to the present, a scowl on his face as Buck Merril slammed the driver's side door shut, his cowboy boots heavy as he approached his younger rodeo partner seconds later.

"How much longer are ya gon' be?" he asked, looking around the stable with a curious expression, a toothpick hanging limply on the corner of his mouth.

Dallas rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, wiping away more sweat. "Got one more stall."

The older man looked him up and down. "Yer racin' Marigold this evening. She's in good shape since you've been trainin' her. I think she's ready to really stretch her legs."

Dallas pictured the dark brown Thoroughbred in his mind—she was strong and tough, and she didn't take to too many people, but she'd taken to him for some reason. Dally liked her real well; she listened to him, trusted him, even. He'd never raced her before, and he wasn't quite sure that doing so that evening was a great idea. Sure, Marigold was a good horse, sure she was strong, but she got spooked easily, even if she was a tough ol' girl.

"Ain't sure 'bout that," he replied, walking into the back stall. "She's good an' all, but she ain't ready to race yet."

Buck followed after him, an unpleasant look on his face. "Yer gon' race that horse. I don't care what you think otherwise, Winston. I don't got any other one worth ridin', so it's her or nothin', and I need the dough, so either you race her or you can git yer shit outta my place and move back to yer daddy's." The whiskey on his breath emitted into the teen's nose, but he didn't move. Buck was usually easy to push around, but recently, he'd been getting awfully brazen, mostly since he'd been bending his elbow a lot more. "What's it gon' be, kid?"

Dallas glared at him hardly. Sometimes, he really considered on belting the lanky cowboy, but he was still relying on him for room and board, so he refrained. Besides, Buck had gotten him back in the Slash J, and he wasn't about to fuck that up—no, jockeying was the only thing that he did honestly, that he really allowed himself to enjoy. There was something about being around the horses that made him calm, that made him forget, if only for a moment, every other thing in his life—his fucked up life that should have ended back in fucking September of last year. An image of Johnny Cade flashed through his mind, and he ground his teeth as he tried to shove it aside.

His fingers closed around Buck's sleeveless flannel, lips curled back and revealing his small, animal like teeth, before he gave him a rough shove. "If we lose, it's on you."

And when the truck's tires peeled away from the stables a minute later, Dallas's fist rammed into the side of the stall, a hard expression present in his icy irises.

* * *

"How's she doin'?" Evie asked, a concerned look in her eyes as she stared at her friend.

Ella sighed, lips pressing together as she thought about her mother. "She's . . . better, but she's not up to full par yet." There was a worried sound in her voice, but she forced a small smile across her lips. "The doctor is hopeful that she'll make a full recovery soon, though."

Evie nodded, patting the shorter girl on the shoulder. "That's great, El. Glad to hear it."

And Ella offered her another masked grin, attempting to conceal the worry that was plaguing her deep inside. Frances Mitchell had fallen ill again, experiencing similar symptoms to those she had several months earlier. Her daughter had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn't being quite honest with her about how she was really feeling, and only when she'd called out of work for the fifth time did Ella begin harping on her about calling for the doctor. Unfortunately, Frances had collapsed, leaving Ella to rush her to the hospital in the middle of the night. She'd been there for four days, and even though Dr. Andrews reassured her that her mother would be just fine, Ella couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in her gut whenever she thought of her mother up in that room by her lonesome, still awfully sick.

"So," Evie continued a moment later, changing the topic, "Steve and I are going to the rodeo later this afternoon. You gonna be there?"

"I have to work," came the hollow answer. "I'd love to, it's just—"

"I understand," the younger girl cut in. She didn't expect Ella to make an appearance, but she figured she would ask anyway to be considerate. Before they reached the exit, Evie turned to her, reaching a hand out to stop her from walking any further. Ella's brows furrowed as she stared up at her friend, wondering what was going on. "You sure you're alright?"

Ella bit her lip, eyes avoiding Evie's. She desperately wanted to admit that things weren't alright, that she wasn't feeling okay, but she couldn't bring herself to say so. She had been working more hours at the grocery store since it was Summer, but she'd even requested more since she was the only working member of the household now. The bills would pile up, and Ella wasn't sure that her rinky-dink paycheck was enough to cover everything, including medical bills. She knew that she would have to start looking for job number two so long as her mother remained unable to work. Truthfully, Ella was okay with that, it was just the toll it was taking on her, that and the worry that seemed to be eating at her from the inside out.

"I'm fine," she answered, mentally kicking herself for sounding so unsure.

Evie pursed her lips, nodding. She didn't believe her friend for one second, but she knew that Ella wouldn't be honest with her anyway. She was the type of girl who didn't ask for help, who didn't go looking for attention—she kept quiet and did whatever she needed to make things right, even if that meant she would silently suffer through it. Evie admired that trait, but even so, she worried. She could see the obvious expressions of sadness and concern that were etched in the older girl's eyes, and it made her feel downright lousy that there wasn't much she could do to help.

"Ya know," she began, trying to put a smile on her friend's face, "Dallas is racing tonight."

And for a second, Ella's eyes sparked, though it was quickly diminished. "Is he?"

She hadn't seen Dallas Winston since the last day of school, and even though she still felt for him, she told herself that pursuing him wasn't worth it. Besides, it wasn't like they really saw each other, as there really wasn't a need for them to. Ella had been busy working day in and day out, and when she wasn't, she was at home, or doing some aimless shopping, cleaning . . . all the things that could possibly label her as a future domesticated housewife. The girl inwardly cringed at the thought, although it wasn't exactly a horrible one. But she hadn't bothered to think much of Dallas, even if the thought of him alone was enough to color her cheeks and make her heart beat a little quicker.

"Sure is," Evie answered, sounding hopeful. "I really wish you could be there. I think Ponyboy is gonna come, well, him and Soda."

Ella smiled. "I wish I could be, too, but it's just not possible tonight."

"Oh, alright," Evie said, dropping the discussion, an ounce of disappointment leaking through her voice. "I was tryin', ya know."

The brown-haired girl chuckled lightly. "I know."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Ella nodded, stepping out into the blistering heat, eyes squinting instantly at the harsh brightness from the sun. "Yeah, I'll be here."

As she walked out of the hospital, Evie watched her with a solemn expression, wishing that there was something she could do for her, but the only thing that she really could do at that moment was simply be there for her. A sigh fell from her lips as she turned around and headed back inside the gift shop, her eyes downcast as she reached for another bouquet of flowers to deliver. It was odd, she thought, how something so pretty could look so fitting in such a lousy place.

* * *

The screen door slammed shut hardly, causing Ponyboy to inwardly cringe. No matter how many times he and Darry told the boys not to slam the door, they never seemed to listen. Two-Bit was always the worst of the bunch, though—him and his dirty boots that always tracked in every particle of the outdoors along with himself. Glory, but Ponyboy surely hoped that it wasn't—

"Hey'ya, Ponykid!" came the instant greeting, and the younger teen forced a grin across his lips as he turned to face the intruding rusty-haired boy. "Say, whatcha doin'—"

And before Two-Bit Mathews could step one foot into the kitchen, Ponyboy darted in front of him, nearly sliding across the newly shined floor to block him from entering. His arms jutted out on either side of his body, green eyes wide and firm, almost reminding the older teen of Darry when he was a lot younger.

Pony's arms dropped back to his side a second later. "You ain't walkin' in here, Two-Bit. I just cleaned these floors."

Two-Bit's lips parted as he glanced around the red-headed boy, gray eyes lighting up. "Oh, hell, kid, I just want an ice cold beer." He licked his lips. "It's hell out there."

"Don't I know it," he grumbled in response. "But we're outta beer."

"Say what now?"

Ponyboy sighed, reaching for the cleaned mop and placing it outside, trying not slip on the small path he'd made for himself to get back to the living room. The floor was still slightly damp, and he mentally groaned at the marks he'd made when he rushed over to stop Two-Bit from walking in and destroying his work—well, it was too late now, he'd already messed it up himself.

His gaze flashed toward his friend. "We ran out last night. We wouldn't have if you'd quit comin' here and helpin' yourself to our refrigerator whenever you'd like."

"Shoot, kid," Two-Bit laughed, "I need to get my fill somewhere, don't I?"

"How about getting a job?"

The older greaser grinned, reaching out to swat his younger friend across the back of his head. "See now, I'd be ruinin' my own sleek reputation if I did that, kid. 'Sides, with all that focus I put into last school year, I think I'm well-deserving of a break."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Whatever you say, Two-Bit."

"And say I do!"

As Two-Bit plopped down on the couch, fanning himself with the morning newspaper, Ponyboy got back to work on cleaning the house. Boy howdy, but Two-Bit sure was right—it was hotter than hell, and the one fan in the house wasn't doing much to circulate air. Ponyboy sighed again, a bead of sweat trailing down his face as he made his way into his and Soda's shared bedroom to collect the dirty laundry. He had promised Darry that he would clean the house up before the social worker got there to do his monthly check-up, a day which none of the Curtis brothers were looking forward to. The teen shook his head at the silent thought as he separated lights and darks, thankful that Darry at least did his own, even if he left them piled up inside of, and in front of, the hamper sometimes.

As he was sorting the clothes, Ponyboy's eyes landed on his book that was delicately placed on the shelf above the desk, right beside _Gone with the Wind_. He internally grimaced, having not touched that book in a while. Johnny's death still greatly upset him, but he had come to terms with his grief and the events that led up to it that terrible week back in September. Looking at his own completed work seemed to bring up those memories, and for a moment, Ponyboy closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm his nerves; he hadn't felt that strongly in quite some time. It was still a shock to him that he was on his way to becoming officially published, and that in itself was enough to settle his mind for the time being. His brothers had been impressed with the story, even excited for him, although Darry's expression of shock at him and Ella going up to Mr. Franklin's office was quite comical.

In three weeks, Ponyboy had received the signed consent forms from each person he used in his story, excluding Dally Winston, who had yet to even hear about the book. Pony felt bad, but he'd hardly seen the towheaded hood since school let out. The only thing he knew was that Dallas had been working quite a bit, and that Buck Merril had been giving him an awfully hard time. For once, Pony felt sorry for Dallas, instead of thinking that he deserved whatever he got in terms of misfortune.

"Hey, Pony," Two-Bit's voice rang out, pulling the younger teen from his thoughts.

"In here," he answered, tearing his gaze away from his book. He quickly got back to work with the laundry, tossing one pile in the basket and gathering the other in his arms.

Two-Bit poked his head in, before reaching for the basket. "You wanna head down to the store with me to pick up some booze?"

Pony furrowed his brows. "You actually buyin' it, Two-Bit?"

"Hey now," he smarted, "I can be honest when I want to."

"Wish it was all the time."

The rusty-haired teen shook his head. "Don't get mouthy, huh. I figure I can help y'all some way, some how, yeah?"

"Sure."

And then Two-Bit smirked. "We can even visit your friend, Ella." He winked playfully. "Maybe she's workin' today."

Ella. Ponyboy hadn't seen her around since the last day of school, either. He wondered about her, how she was doing and all, if she'd seen Dally. He figured she probably hadn't, and he wouldn't blame her if she didn't bother with him at all. Deep down, he was grateful that Dallas and Ella had met, but he wasn't really a supporter of Ella's feelings for the former jailbird, even though she had never directly admitted them out loud.

"Sure," he eventually agreed, tossing the clothes in the washer. "Sounds good."

* * *

Jan was fanning herself at the register while Ella arranged the candy counter, a tired look in her blue orbs, her lips pressed into a straight line. Jan watched the girl, her brows creased a little. Truthfully, she was concerned for her younger co-worker, as she had been expressing nothing but sheer unhappiness for the past week or so, working herself to the bone to remain occupied. Ella was a deep thinker, and rational though she was, she was also prone to thought exaggeration.

"How's your mamma, hunny?" Jan inquired, moving away from the register. When Ella didn't respond, she stepped beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder lightly. "Ella," she said, and when the girl's eyes were on hers, she took the box of candies from her hands. "You need a break."

Ella shook her head. "I'm fine, Jan."

"Ella." That time, her name was said with more firmness, and her shoulders dropped. "I know you're worried about your mamma, but you're not exactly helping yourself acting like this."

The teen nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that . . ." Her cheeks turned a shade, humiliation setting in as she realized how ridiculous she sounded. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Tell you what," the older woman said after a moment, stepping around her, "I will arrange the candies and you can work the register. It's not too busy after all."

"Sure," Ella replied, body seeming to sag down a little. She remained quiet while Jan worked through the aisles, switching and rearranging all the candies. Honestly, Ella felt bad, she did, never wanting to worry anyone, even if she felt so terrible. She wasn't sure what was making her feel so bad to begin with; she kept telling herself that her mother was fine, that she was in good hands, and that she would be able to pay the bills on time, so what was her problem?

The door chimed, signaling a customer's arrival, and Ella stood up straighter to appear a little more professional. As her gaze flickered around the aisles, she realized that Jan was right—it _was_ awfully slow, but she figured they'd both rather be stuck inside where it was cool, rather than be out in the heat. Golly, but Ella was positive that if she stood out there longer than a few minutes, her skin would crisp immediately—the sun and her just didn't mix.

The brown-haired girl shook her head at the thought, before a pair of dark boots entered her view, causing her to look up. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of who was in front of her, recognition flooding her face instantaneously, a kind of recognition that she wished hadn't existed. His dark blue eyes bore into her own, black curly hair slicked back almost expertly, the scar on his face almost standing out against his dark skin. She had never seen Tim Shepard up close like this, and in the light, no less, and she felt herself cowering back a bit.

"Hi," she mumbled stupidly, internally wincing. "Um, what can I—"

"Two packs of Kool," he stated before she could finish. His voice was low and oddly quiet, and Ella remembered him from that night when she, Dallas, Two-Bit Mathews, and Dennis Wilde had trashed Principal Davis's car and property.

She licked her lips, turning around to get the packs, trying not to remember that night at all, as it reminded her too much of Craig Bryant. No, she was done thinking about him and letting him make her feel bad. She could feel Tim's eyes on her as she reached for the cigarettes, her hands turning clammy, and when she'd turned around to place them on the counter, the top one slipped through her fingers like butter, falling to the floor and slipping under the counter. Ella felt her heart begin to race, drumming against her rib cage hardly. Deciding not to make more of a spectacle of herself, she jerked back around and grabbed another carton of Kool before placing it on the counter beside the other one.

Tim's eyes were stony, but there was a small indent on one side of his mouth, as if Ella's misshape was amusing. He paid her, watching silently as she gathered up the change, carefully handing it to him, eyes focused on the counter top. The skin of her hands was rosy, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but she remained steady otherwise. The dark-haired hood eyed her coolly for a moment, remembering the night Dallas had him pick her up to take care of some childish antics. He couldn't remember the exact reason—something about Ponyboy Curtis and George Clayton, and the girl and her ex-boyfriend—but it didn't matter anyway.

"Ella, isn't it?" he asked casually.

Ella nodded slowly. "Yes, and you're Tim Shepard." Her eyes followed his hand as he placed the cigarette packages inside his pants pocket. Dallas smoked Kool, too, she recalled, and almost smiled as she thought of how many times he'd ran out during one of their tutoring sessions and had gotten annoyed when she only had Lights to share. "I remember you."

There was a slight pause, as if Ella had said something wrong, but after a moment, Tim merely nodded, a grim look on his face. "Sure."

The girl immediately felt awkward, eyes scanning the store for Jan's petite frame. "Have you seen Dallas around?"

Tim made a sound like a light chuckle, though it didn't sound friendly. "Heard he was working for the Slash J, but I ain't seen much of him." And then he stared at her for a second, and remembered exactly who she was. "Weren't you his tutor?"

"Yeah," she replied, a hesitant sound in her voice.

"Well, if you're lookin' for Dallas, I reckon he'll be at the—"

"Rodeo," she finished, nodding. "I heard he was racing tonight, but I can't make it."

The older teen was staring at her almost intently. If not for her crazy hair, he would have never been able to remember who the hell she was. Thinking back to that night several months ago, he remembered her—long frizzy tresses, clean face, plain features. She looked different now, a lot different, and although Tim would admit she looked pretty good with the straighter hair, he thought all the makeup around her eyes made her look like a raccoon.

"Workin' or something?"

She nodded quickly. "I need the extra hours. My mom is sick, so things have been . . . tight."

The door chimed, and a familiar voice reached Ella's ears. She swiftly saw Two-Bit Mathews swagger into an aisle, followed by none other than Ponyboy Curtis. Their eyes met for a brief second, and Ella smiled, perking up almost immediately. Ponyboy's lips curved ever so little, his eyes seeming to shift from their previous expression to a more surprised one, and Ella knew it was because Tim Shepard was standing there in front of her. She realized that it probably looked as though he was hassling her, even though, surprisingly, they were making small talk.

Ella glanced back at the notorious gang leader, registering that he was looking over his shoulder at Ponyboy Curtis, too. In a second, his gaze was back on her, and instantly, she felt like a tiny little insect beneath his smoldering gaze. Then again, Tim Shepard was a dangerous person, and even though he was being almost cordial to Ella, she knew about him, and she couldn't bring herself to feel comfortable in his presence. It was the same with Dallas, she noted, because even though her feelings for him were incredibly strong, she still felt wary around him.

"See you around," Tim said, the softness of his voice sounding almost bizarre in comparison to his cool appearance. Before Ella could respond, his back was already to her and he was walking away, leaving an odd feeling creep up her spine. She saw him nod once at Two-Bit and Ponyboy, who were headed in her direction, two six-packs of Bud in hand.

She merely stared at Two-Bit's quirky expression as he placed the items on the counter for her to ring up, and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Now you know I can't sell alcohol to you, Two-Bit," she pointed out, glancing around for Jan.

"Shucks, sweetheart, can't you make an exception?" he asked, offering her a goofy grin. Beside him, Ponyboy smiled. "See, my birthday wasn't too long ago, and—"

"You wisecracking liar," Ponyboy cut in, shaking his head. He looked at Ella. "It was nearly a month ago."

"So what?" Two-Bit asked, eyes full of humor. "You can make the exception for me, can't you, Ella?"

The brown-headed girl sighed, mentally debating if that was a good idea or not. "You know, just because I like y'all doesn't mean I can ignore the law." Her face looked almost solemn. "You're not twenty-one, Two-Bit."

"Well, I don't see no one around," he replied, cocking an eyebrow. "C'mon, huh? I ain't gonna tell anyone, and neither is Ponyboy, right, kid?" He nudged the younger boy. "We ain't gonna say nothing if Ella sells us some booze."

Any other time, Ponyboy would have immediately agreed, because you stuck with your buddies, but some part of him actually felt bad about putting Ella in this predicament. Before he could respond, though, an older woman walked up behind Ella, her hands on her hips, a firm look plastered on her face as she glanced at him and Two-Bit.

"Well, howdy, Mrs. Clarke," the older teen greeted with an instant grin. "How're you doin'?"

Jan raised an eyebrow. "Just fine, Keith. How're you an' your mamma doing?"

For a split second, Ella saw Two-Bit's face pale, and she realized that Jan was silently reminding him that she knew his mother, and she had seen the beer on the counter that he had been trying to purchase, a situation that Ponyboy seemed to be finding some amusement in, as his eyes held a light spark in them, his lips curved upward. But while Two-Bit stepped aside with Jan, Ponyboy and Ella became engrossed in their own conversation.

"How's your Summer going?" Ella inquired.

"Not too bad," came the answer. "I got the consent letters for my book."

"All of them?"

Ponyboy's eyes flickered down for a second. "Not exactly. I ain't seen Dally around lately. He doesn't even know about my book yet."

Ella felt her heart drop. "I'm happy for you, you know. That really is quite an accomplishment."

"Thanks."

The two stood in silence for a minute, before Ella nodded toward Two-Bit and Jan. "Tell Two-Bit that I'm sorry about"—She gestured to the cases of Bud—"this. I just can't risk my job right now with everything going on." At the younger teen's look of bafflement, she quickly explained. "My mom's been sick. I took her to the hospital a few nights ago because she collapsed and wouldn't call for the doctor, so it's been hard . . ."

"Gee, I'm sorry, Ella," he responded, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Is there anything that I can do?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't think so, Ponyboy, but thank you. I appreciate it."

He smiled in return. "Of course."

And as they went on to another subject, Ponyboy watched her expressions shift, unable to help but feel that there was more to the story with her mother.

* * *

Dallas stalked away, a sneer blanketing his face, eyes unforgiving. He was going to rip Buck a new one, beat his fucking head in. He knew that the race would end badly for him—Marigold just hadn't been ready, and Buck had lost the race for them. Jesus Christ, Dallas thought bitterly, gritting his teeth, if only he hadn't raced her, if only—

"Winston!" Buck called out, grabbing him roughly by the back of the shoulder.

The blond-headed teen whipped around, shoving the cowboy back into the side of his truck. "This is yer fucking fault," he growled, slamming him back again. "I told you that horse wasn't ready to race yet!" A string of profanities fell from his mouth as he shook his head. "You fucked yourself this time."

Buck was scoffing. "Ya know what I think, kid? I think yer ass if gettin' too damn mouthy talkin' to me like that. I may not be yer scumbag daddy, but I'm givin' ya a cheap room and food, so's unless you wanna be out on yer ass again, you'd better quit talkin'."

But Dallas was already blue in the face, a burning anger fueling his mood all the more. "You fuck," he spit, and before the lanky blond could react, Dallas's fist connected with his face, sending his head flying backward into the side of the truck.

Buck was cradling his head with one hand, eyes bloodshot and full of vexation. Raising his free hand, he swung an empty whiskey bottle at the hood, narrowly missing his face but cracking it down against the space between his neck and shoulder. Dallas's face scrunched up in pain, his right hand reaching up to cover the new wound. Buck was still holding the back of his head, a small trail of blood coating his fingers and moving down the back of his hand. He scowled at the towheaded teen in front of him, before spitting the toothpick out of his mouth and tossing the bottle aside.

"You can git yer shit outta my place tonight, Winston," he stated, the words passing through his pressed teeth. "Go back to yer daddy."

Dallas said nothing as Buck climbed into the truck and peeled out, leaving him standing there with a stoic expression on his face, his eyes blazing.

 _Sometimes I wonder what I'm a_ _-_ _gonna do_

 _But there ain't no cure for the Summertime blues_

* * *

 **And we're back, guys!**

 **I hope y'all enjoyed the first chapter of "Wild Night," the sequel to "Green Light." There's a lot to come for this story, so stay tuned!  
**

 **Thanks for reading! :3**


	2. The Deep End

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Loverboy owns "Working for the Weekend."**

* * *

 _Everyone's looking to see if it was you_

 _Everyone wants you to come through_

 _Everyone's hoping it'll all work out_

 _Everyone's waiting, they're holding out_

 **June 29, 1966**

"Would you quit movin' so much?" Evie asked, sounding exasperated. "I ain't takin' that much off, for goodness sake, Ella. You're sittin' on four inches of your hair already!"

Ella's hands were covering her face. "Maybe I _like_ sitting on four inches of my hair."

"Well, you're startin' to look like a damn hippie," came the indignant response. "A few inches off of your hair won't kill you. Might do ya some good, don't ya think?" She rolled her eyes at her friend's silence. "When the hell was the last time this mane was snipped?"

". . . Homecoming."

Evie just about cried at that answer. How in the hell could one not take care of their hair for so long, and yet have it looking almost healthy? Then again, Ella's hair was so damn thick, it was probably concealing any present damage. Evie decided that it was about time she and Ella had a chat about hair maintenance—especially since Ella had been using a hot iron frequently. Her hair needed a good trim, a good conditioning, too. Jesus H. Christ, but Evie was only trying to help, and at a cheap expense, so why did Ella have to be so . . . so _ridiculous?_

The brunette sighed, suppressing another eye roll. "You need to take care of your hair better, El. Since you've been straightening it a lot, too, it's more likely to damage. Look, just let me take a couple of inches off it, alright? It'll be back before the end of Summer."

Ella just about huffed, but if anyone knew anything about hair and beauty, it was Evie Martin. "Oh, fine," she eventually agreed, though she was reluctant about it. "Just get it over with."

"Gladly," the younger teen replied, her tone full of relief. "'Sides, you'll want to look good for the Independence Day party, right?" When no answer was given, Evie looked up to see Ella's chin dropped forward, a distant look in her eyes reflected through the vanity mirror. "You're still goin', right?"

"I think so," she answered softly. "I mean, I want to, but—"

"Your mother," Evie cut in, nodding. "I understand."

Ella wanted to tell her that she didn't, not really. She debated on telling her friend how she felt, but she didn't want to sound like she was feeling sorry for herself, either. She wanted to go and hang out with Evie and Ponyboy, but the image of her mother's face in that hospital room prevented her from feeling like she was allowed to. No, she told herself, responsibilities and priorities came first—fun with friends could wait until everything else was sorted out.

She licked her lips as Evie began combing her hair out. "I'm sorry, Evie."

The younger girl shook her head. "It's fine."

"It's not," she replied dully. "I gotta stop making promises I can't keep."

 _Snip._

"You'll be fine, Ella," Evie stated, trimming another piece of her friend's hair. "You know, it might do you some good to have fun, though. I think your mother would understand."

A sigh. "But wouldn't that be selfish?"

She shrugged. "I don't think so, not really." The two of them went silent as Evie finished snipping away at Ella's hair. Once she was done, though, she continued speaking. "Have you ever considered how you would feel if you were in your mother's place instead?"

"What do you mean?"

Reaching for the comb, Evie replied. "Well, look at it this way. Say you were in the hospital and there was a party or somethin' your mother wanted to go to, and she thought that you were holding her back so she didn't go. How would you feel?"

"I suppose I'd feel bad," Ella answered, and then frowned. "But it still feels selfish."

Evie stared at her for a good moment, trying to comprehend what was going on in her mind. Ella was always genuine, a good person through and through, but sometimes, she didn't understand her thought process. The worry in her eyes was overly evident, the downward bend of her lips seeming to become permanent as the days moved forward. And Evie knew—there was more to what was going on than what Ella was telling anyone, and a sinking feeling seemed to envelope her very core.

 _Oh, God._

Placing the comb back on the vanity, Evie moved to open her bedroom window further, before aiming the fan in a different direction. With a false grin, she handed Ella a cigarette and lit one for herself, hoping that it would calm her nerves some. But with one look at Ella's face, the sickly fake smile forcing her lips to curve up, Evie wanted to throw up.

* * *

Dallas needed to change his sheets . . . or burn them. Christ almighty, but the damn things hadn't been touched in over a year, and they reeked of old cigarettes, booze, sex . . . and Sylvia's perfume. Dallas couldn't even remember the last time he'd had Sylvia Evans in his bed, but damn, the smell of her perfume and hair still lingered faintly on the pillowcases. He almost grinned at the thought, but he was too aggravated to do so.

He hated his father's house—his childhood home—and even more than that, he hated the old man, hated him with a burning passion. New York's streets were better than living with him, and Dallas wanted so bad to be anywhere but that place. Thing is, he didn't have a place to go since Buck decided to kick him out, and there was no way he was keeping his belongings—little as they were—under the fucking bridge. If Buck wasn't such a prick, and hadn't made him race Marigold, he wouldn't have been in this predicament, but here he was, clad in dirty, ripped up jeans, an old t-shirt, and no clean clothes to change into. Hell, he didn't even have clean sheets to sleep in. With a contemptuous look, the blond grabbed the garbage bag he kept his clothes in and decided to head to the Curtis's house. At least he would be able to take a shower and wash his laundry there.

Stepping out into the heat, Dallas almost shoved his fist through the exterior of the house. He didn't have the fucking T-Bird anymore, so he would have to walk across town to their place. They might have lived on the poor side of town, but he lived in the fucking slums, close to Shepard's turf, real downtown and not a real good place to be. With a low groan, he made his way across the lawn, kicking various bottles and cans, or whatever else, out into the street, listening to the sounds of sirens blaring in the distance and the couple in the house across the street from his father's yelling at each other; they'd been going at it all night—probably had a fucking boxing match, too.

Ten minutes into the walk, Dallas was dripping with sweat. The bag over his shoulder felt heavier than usual, and every time he shifted it around, he felt the material sticking to his left shoulder blade. Glory, he thought bitterly, but he was actually glad he hadn't bothered to shower at his house. It wouldn't have mattered anyway—he would have been stinking by the time he arrived at the Curtis's. Just thinking that almost made him subconsciously want to sniff his armpit, but he thought better of it.

The sound of a car behind him caused him to stop, turning around to see who was there. A scowl formed on his lips as he glared at Shepard's old car, the darker-haired hood looking back at him through the windshield.

"Need a lift, Winston?" Tim asked, almost sounding smug.

Dallas debated it. If he got into the car with Tim, the older teen was more likely to rub it in that he'd been kicked out of Buck's, but on the other hand, it was so fucking hot out, and Dally was tired of walking. Mentally cursing everything under the sun, he tossed his bag in the back of the car and hopped in the passenger seat, practically peeling his shirt away from his chest and back. He slightly grimaced as the cotton rubbed the wound on his shoulder—where Buck had belted him with the bottle. Fucker.

Tim's nose wrinkled. "Phew. When's the last time you had a bath?"

"Fuck off, Shepard," he growled, scoffing. "You ain't lookin' so upstanding yourself."

The older boy chuckled lightly. "So what'd you do to piss off ol' Merril?"

And there it was—not even a full two minutes into the ride and Tim was already prying. Dallas hadn't expected any less, though. Tim was a person who liked having the facts right, and that was something that the blond admired about him. While he could be an asshole, he always got to the bottom of things, made sure his shit was straight. Plus, he was a good and loyal asset when needed, and even though he and Dally had their own brawls—sometimes just for kicks—they always came through for each other.

"Piss him off?" Dallas repeated, narrowing his eyes. "That what he's telling you?"

"What's goin' around."

His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring. "He fucked up the race Saturday night. Had me race a horse who wasn't even cut out for it yet. Scumbag."

Tim's lips were pursed. He usually didn't pay too much attention to the rodeo, although he'd pop in every now and again. He'd seen Dallas jockey before, knew he was good, too. He also knew that Buck was a cheater and a bootlegger, but while the lanky cowboy was brazen, he was also pretty stupid, liked to think he was right about things he wasn't. Tim didn't exactly have a beef with him, but they weren't exactly friendly, either.

"So he kicked you out over a lost race?" He glanced once at Dallas, raising an eyebrow with interest, his voice level. "'Cause I heard you socked him pretty good, made a decent sized lump on his head." There was some form of underlying humor in that statement. "Looks like your handiwork."

Dally smirked at the mental image. "Yeah, well, his bottle got me pretty good." He rubbed the space between his neck and shoulder. "Maybe whacking him in the head did him some good."

Tim shook his head, and changed the topic. "Saw your girl Saturday afternoon, you know, your old tutor . . . Ella?"

"And?"

Truthfully, Dallas hadn't thought about Ella Mitchell at all, having almost forgotten about her. But when Tim brought her up, it was as if they were back in school doing the tutoring sessions all over again. Lordy, was Dallas glad those days were over with. He'd seen his parole officer right after they'd gotten out, and then he was told that he would remain on probation for the next few months, although there hadn't been any strict rules that came with it. He was just supposed to keep his nose clean and not be out during certain hours. So far, he'd been doing well, but it wasn't like he would never slip up—Dallas and rules just didn't work together for too long.

Still, thinking about Ella and remembering her existence brought back those memories, and he instantly frowned, completely disinterested in whatever Tim had to say about running into her.

Tim shrugged. "Nothin' special. I almost didn't recognize the little broad at first with all that shit on her face." He sounded bored. "Sure is clumsy."

"She was always dopey," came the response. And then, ever so casually, he asked, "How's she doin'?"

"Seemed fine to me," Tim answered. "Said her mother's been sick or somethin', though, she's in the hospital." And then he remembered the girl's worn out face. "Seems like she's got a lot goin' on, but she asked about ya."

The blond's brows raised, and he recalled how Ella felt about him. It hadn't been a secret or anything, not that he'd called her out on it, but she was so plainly obvious, even though she hadn't known she was being so. Part of Dallas, and he wasn't quite sure why, almost pitied her for liking him; nothing would come of them anyway—Ella was too domesticated and too much of a . . . _good_ girl.

"What'd she want?" he questioned, keeping his focus straight ahead.

Stopping the car in front of the Curtis's house, Tim lit up a cigarette. "Just asked if I'd seen you around, nothing more to it."

Dally nodded, wondering if Ella thought about him often. The idea of it caused him to chuckle, and he climbed out of the car, shaking his head with a small smirk. As Tim pulled away, Dallas pictured his former tutor in his head, agreeing with Tim that she probably looked fucking stupid with all that shit caked on her face, like she started doing to herself toward the end of the school year.

* * *

Ponyboy trudged into the house, sweat beads zigzagging down his face and the back of his neck. Glory, but the heat was intense, and the house felt even more stuffy than usual. The bus had felt congested with everyone else seated beside each other, the back where he sat was almost suffocating. Even with the windows cracked, it'd been too hot.

Placing the books he'd gotten at the library on the coffee table, Pony caught a glimpse of his arms, noticing the red tinge where the sun had beat on him during his brief walk home from the bus stop. The sound of the washer going on its spin cycle gained his curiosity—he hadn't done any laundry before he left the house that morning, and he'd been the last one to leave. His eyes broadened slightly as he remembered the one person who had previously been sneaking into the house during school hours to wash his clothes, and with a blank expression, he made his way through the kitchen to the laundry room, brows knitting as he hoped his assumption was wrong. When he'd poked his head in, though, seeing that the room was empty, he walked out back.

He followed the trail of smoke that was billowing from somewhere on the deck, stepping back out into the blazing heat. Perched on the old wooden rail, Dally Winston was seated with his bare back to the younger greaser, his white-blond hair damp and beginning to curl up around his ears and neck. Upon hearing Ponyboy's footsteps, though, he turned his head, the cigarette hanging off his lip.

"Hey, Dal," Ponyboy greeted, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.

The blond nodded once, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth and securing it between his index and middle finger. He looked the kid over with vague interest, not expecting to see him right then, although he wasn't surprised. He could see his wandering gaze as it planted on the gauze covering part of his shoulder and neck, lips pressing together. Dallas almost smirked—kid looked just like his mother and didn't even realize it.

"How's it goin', kid?" he asked, causing the other teen's eyes to tear away from the bandage.

He shrugged. "It's going, I guess. What happened to you?"

"Got into a fight with Buck a few nights ago," he answered flatly. And then his gaze found the boy's red arms and a smile crept over his lips. "Nice burn."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up." He watched as Dallas took another drag of his cigarette, turning away from him to flick the butt away, his face once again turning serious. Truthfully, Ponyboy still felt somewhat uncomfortable being around the older hood, and not because he was scared of him, but because Dally was the only one who didn't know about the book, and he still needed to get his permission to use his name, and he had a feeling that Dally would rather beat his head in than ever agree to letting his name be used in that book. Then again, Tim Shepard had agreed, although it was with Darry's presence there. He looked back at Dallas, deciding that he ought to at least be friendly; he'd likely not get clobbered. "So, laundry . . ."

Dallas shifted as he stood up, scratching the hair on his chest. "What about it?"

Ponyboy could feel his ears getting hot. His question probably sounded more like an accusation than the beginning of a casual conversation. "Nothin', I just . . . heard it goin' when I walked in, that's all."

Giving him a strange look, Dallas side-stepped him to walk back into the house, the pads of his feet slapping against the kitchen floor as he made his way to the laundry room. Seeing that the washer was finished, he pulled his clothes out and tossed them on Mrs. Curtis's old drying rack. Ponyboy watched him curiously—Dallas was a tough hood, and the image of him doing laundry was almost fascinating. Then again, it wasn't as if Ponyboy had never seen him in clean clothes before; Mrs. Curtis had washed each of the boy's clothes more than once, especially Johnny's. If it wasn't for her, Johnny probably wouldn't have had clean clothes to wear. Ponyboy smiled at the memory of his mother—she was good and golden, and he sure missed her.

"Hey, kid, wake the hell up," Dally's voice rang out, snapping him back to reality. He blinked, stepping out of the way as Dallas carried the rack passed him and headed outside to the deck. He was shaking his head a little, mumbling something under his breath. Placing the rack of his clothes in the sun, he jerked back around to look the kid over. "What's with you, man?"

"Nothin', I was just thinkin' is all," Ponyboy answered. And quickly, he changed the subject, trying to ignore the look of perplexity etched across the towheaded teen's face. "You know Steve was challenged to a race Sunday night?"

Now that got Dallas's attention. "By who?"

"Paul Hopkins."

The older boy almost laughed. "You gotta be kiddin' me. Paul Hopkins wants to race Randle?" He licked his lips, amusement flashing in his eyes. "He must dig humiliation better than pride."

Pony shrugged, walking out to the living room and flopping down on the couch. "Guess so. But I guess he and Paul had some problem . . . something about lifted hubcaps, so Paul challenged him to a drag after the Independence Day party, said if he wins, Steve gets him new hubcaps, and if Steve wins, they can forget all about it."

Dallas grinned, but there was a small amount of concern plaguing the back of his mind. It wasn't a secret that Steve Randle was one of the best, if not _the_ best, racer on their side of town, and while he was always down for a good race, nobody usually bet him or bet against him. They'd be awfully stupid to, they knew better. Paul Hopkins wasn't exactly a brainy kinda fellow, and Dallas knew that he most likely would _never_ let the incident go. Randle was known for lifting hubcaps, and whether or not he picked up Hopkins's was a different story. Dallas knew that Paul would find another way to get back at Steve, even if he won or lost the race.

"So, it's Sunday night, huh?"

"Yeah, Sunday night."

Leaning back in Darry's recliner, Dallas kicked his feet out, crossing his ankles. Sunday night was just perfect for a good drag race.

* * *

"You invited Mary to the party?" Steve's lips were parted, a look of disbelief blanketing his face. Soda wasn't serious, was he? A Soc chick on their side of town? Good Lord, but he must have been out of his mind to think of something so stupid. "Soda—"

"It's been several weeks, and y'all still ain't met her," the golden-haired teen fired back. He closed his eyes, using his rag to wipe the excess sweat off of his forehead. "Look, Mary ain't a Soc, Steve. She's just a nice girl from the other side of town, dig?" His lips pursed for a second. "I told her about you guys, and she's . . . interested, ya know? She wants to meet y'all."

Steve was still expressing immense displeasure. He was happy for his best friend, real happy. It's just that nobody had met this Mary gal, as if she'd always been some kinda secret to Soda. But it was blatantly obvious that Soda was happy again, that his brown eyes were lively and dancing, his moods better and upbeat. Steve hadn't seen him like that since before the incident last September. Truthfully, he was glad to have his buddy back, to have things the way they used to be, but Mary DeVaney was still a "topic" that slightly worried him. Steve still couldn't believe that she and Soda had been seeing each other for so long while Soda's brothers (and friends) had yet to meet her. And now that Soda had officially invited her to their side of the tracks, his gut seemed to be twisting up.

He sighed, tossing his own dirty rag in the bucket. "Whatever, Soda." And to ease the tension, he forced a smile across his lips and asked, "So, she's interested in a bunch of greasers, huh?" His brows wiggled as he nudged his friend. "What've you been tellin' her, huh? Anything good?"

Soda laughed, elbowing him back. "That my one buddy, Steve, is a real asshole, to stay away from him 'cause he's dirty, probably got fleas or somethin' . . ."

Steve gave him a rough, but playful, shove. "Fucker."

"Naw," the younger teen said, still chuckling, "I told her y'all were a great group of guys."

"So you lied?"

Soda grinned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Well, I didn't include Dally in that statement, so I wasn't lyin'."

"Ain't he back to livin' with his old man?" Steve asked, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. "I ain't seen him around much."

"Somethin' like that," came the response. "I ain't seen him since the night he lost that race. Boy howdy, but Buck was awfully pissed. Should've seen them goin' at it afterward."

The darker-haired teen nodded. "Yeah, I heard there was some kinda brawl between them, and Merril kicked him out." He shifted, crossing one leg over the other. "What he told me and Shepard anyway."

Soda raised an eyebrow. "When did you see Shepard?"

"The other night or somethin', when Evie and I stopped in to have a drink," he answered. "Shepard was there with one of his boys, heard me askin' for Dallas, so Buck told me that he kicked his ass to the curb 'cause of his fuck-ups."

A sigh fell past Soda's lips. "That ain't what happened." At Steve's look of interest, he continued, one hand rubbing at his chin. "It was Buck's fault, he made Dal race this horse that wasn't ready to be raced, so because he didn't win, Buck got hacked off and the two of them had it out." He shook his head. "I know Dally when it comes to racing—he's a good jockey, he knows horses."

Steve nodded. "Speakin' of races . . ."

The younger boy blinked. "We gotta spruce up your car."

"Sprucin' or no sprucin'," Steve said, "Paul Hopkins don't stand a chance."

A smirk was stretching across Soda's lips. "Damn straight. Still, it'd be nice to see Hopkins's face when all that's left in his view is the shiny ass end of your car."

* * *

That night, Ella sat in darkness, elbows pressed into the kitchen table, chin resting in her hands. Her eyes were distant and sorrowful as she stared at nothing in particular. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, her body practically cemented to the chair. She'd been sitting there for two hours straight, lost in thought, the bills beside her unopened, the soup in the pot still on the stove, her mother's favorite brown mug still in its rightful place just to the right of the coffee pot.

The only sound, besides Ella's breathing, was the clock ticking above the sink—a rooster clock that she and her mother had gotten at a yard sale several years ago. Ella felt sick as she remembered that day, her thoughts instantly drifting to the conversation between Dr. Andrews, her mother, and herself earlier that evening, a cool sensation creeping up her spine.

"Hello, Mrs. Mitchell," Dr. Andrews had greeted. "How are you feeling this evening?"

Frances smiled a little. "Better."

From beside her, Ella tried to look hopeful, but her gut was twisting up in knots, and she couldn't hide the worry that she was feeling. Even with his small smile, which Ella assumed was supposed to be comforting, she knew that Dr. Andrews wasn't there to give them any good news, and her heart seemed to sink as she shot a look at her mother. Dr. Andrews went on to explain some things, easing both Ella and her mother into the results of her exam from earlier that day.

" . . . shows that the cancer has spread . . . and . . ."

". . . medication for any pain . . ."

". . . not much we can do . . ."

"Is there any hope?"

". . . any treatment could be . . ."

"How much time?"

Ella's shoulders sagged, arms sliding so that her elbows spread out on the table, her head resting on her hands to stop the shaking of her fingers. There was nothing she could do, except for wait, and wait for what she didn't know. Her eyes slid closed, lips parting as she inhaled and exhaled, trying to steady the rapid beating of her heart, her nerves rising to the surface with every passing second.

Nothing she could do . . . but breathe.

 _Everybody's working for the weekend_

 _Everybody wants a little romance  
_

 _Everybody's goin' off the deep end_

 _Everybody needs a second chance, oh_

* * *

 **A tremendous _t_ _hank you_ for all of the positive feedback! It's always appreciated! :3**


	3. These Perfect Places

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Lorde owns "Perfect Places."**

* * *

 _All of our heroes fading_

 _Now I can't stand to be alone_

 _Let's go to perfect places_

 **July 3, 1966**

"When do you plan on seeing Mr. Franklin?" Darry inquired, placing his breakfast dish in the sink. "I thought you wanted to get your book out there."

Ponyboy shrugged. "I haven't told Dally yet."

At that information, Darry sighed deeply. He'd gone with his kid brother to ask Tim Shepard if it was alright to use his name, as well as his brother's, and the dark-haired hood hadn't seemed to mind all that much, so long as Ponyboy didn't reveal too much about his personal affairs, to which Ponyboy assured him that he hadn't. Darry had found the situation quite humorous—asking a gang leader for his consent to use his name in a coming of age book. To be honest, Tim looked as though he thought it was a little comical, too, but surprisingly, he'd seemed interested. But Dallas was a different matter, considering that he played a prodigious role in Ponyboy's book, one that had a completely different outcome than the events that had actually taken place.

"When do you plan to?" He turned back to face his youngest brother, who was still seated at the table, poking around at his eggs. "You want me to ask him for you?"

Ponyboy shook his head. "That's okay, Darry. I'll do it . . . soon."

"Well, you'd better, if you want that book on the market, kiddo," he replied, and smiled. "You know, I'm awfully proud of you, Ponyboy. I know Mom and Dad are, too."

At those words, the younger boy perked up instantly. "Thanks, Darry." And he grinned, too. He needed to hear that without even knowing he did. "They're proud of you, too. And Soda."

Before either of them could respond, Soda trailed in, a tired look in his eyes. "Hey, Pone," he greeted, and yawned while pouring himself a glass of chocolate milk. He glanced at Darry as the older boy placed a plate of eggs and the jar of jelly in front of him. "Mornin', Dar."

"So," Darry started, finishing off his coffee, "Mary is really coming here later?"

Soda's eyes immediately lit up. "Sure is. Speaking of which, I told her just to meet me at Giberson's and I'd bring her here once my shift ended. That okay, Darry?"

The oldest Curtis brother shrugged. "Sure." And then he looked down at Ponyboy. "I'm gonna run to the store and pick up a few things. In the meantime, Pony, would you mind cleaning up some around here?" His gaze drifted passed his brothers into the laundry room where a pile of clothes from the emptied hampers was placed on top of the washer. "Maybe do some laundry . . ."

"Yeah, okay," the red-headed teen answered, and mimicked Soda's yawn. "Would you quit doin' that?" he asked in a playful tone. "It's contagious."

Soda offered him a toothy grin. "What can I say? I'm a contagious guy."

* * *

Evie stood outside Mrs. Mitchell's hospital room, a nervous look in her eyes. She'd spoken to her only twice, and that was when Ella was there, but she was worried about her friend and what was going on, so she decided to speak to Ella's mother, if the woman was alright enough to do so. She didn't want to worry her or stress her out, but Ella's behavior had been . . . concerning, and Evie considered her one of her better friends, so with a newfound courage, the brunette tapped on the door, before slowly stepping inside.

"Evie," Mrs. Mitchell said, a smile gracing her lips. She didn't look well, but she appeared to be feeling better. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks," she answered. "You're looking a lot better. How are you feeling?"

"I am better, and I'm feeling it, too," came the response. Mrs. Mitchell liked Evie well enough, thought she was a good friend to her daughter. But it was a surprise that she was visiting her on a mid-morning Sunday like this. "You aren't working today, are you?" she suddenly asked, surprise laced in her voice.

The girl shrugged lightly. "I'm covering, actually. I usually work during the afternoon shift, but my co-worker called in sick, so I'm here this morning."

"That's kind of you."

Evie smiled, though it was hardly visible. "So, um, how's Ella doing? I know she's been upset with everything, but I haven't seen much of her these past few days."

Mrs. Mitchell's brows furrowed. She knew that her daughter had been working hard, even though she'd told her to take it easy and not worry so much. But Ella had always been a terrible stresser, and she worried about every single little thing. Mrs. Mitchell didn't want Ella to worry, and more times than none, she'd tried to tell her that she would be okay, that everything would be fine—even if they both knew that it wouldn't be.

"She's worried," Mrs. Mitchell eventually answered. "Ella is a bit of a worry-wort." There was a brief chuckle with that. "She was always a scared child, but she's strong." Her eyes met Evie's. "When I became ill last year, she acted the same way."

The teen nodded. "I understand. I've just been worried about her, and you."

"If only there was a way I could ease her worries." And she shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Evie, I'll be just fine." She winked for good measure. "Dr. Andrews said I'm a tough cookie. No cancer is going to knock me down."

For a split second, Evie's eyes widened. "You have cancer?" There was a pregnant pause, the words slipping out of the teen's mouth without thought. A desperation lurked beneath them, her chest seeming to clamp as she thought about Ella. No wonder the girl had been so upset. Her mother had cancer, and Evie knew that—even though Mrs. Mitchell was trying to reassure her that nothing was wrong—there was more to it. She knew Ella was a strong girl, not particularly tough, but Evie couldn't imagine how she would feel if her mother fell ill with cancer. But she bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, it's alright, Evie," Mrs. Mitchell interrupted. "I have ovarian cancer. But it's okay. I'm okay." And although her voice was firm, it sounded as though she was trying to assure herself.

Evie nodded, her hands folding together, a nervous habit of hers. She wasn't sure what to think, or what she could say to the woman, but she felt awful. She could see Ella in her mind, her worried expressions and tired eyes, the frown on her lips seeming to become permanent. Glancing at Mrs. Mitchell, she could see her friend's face looking back at her—they shared the same blue eyes and brown hair, but where Ella's was still full and thick, Mrs. Mitchell's was short and wavy, the top and sides beginning to gray with age.

She licked her lips. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Me, too," Mrs. Mitchell responded, and then a thoughtful look crossed her face. "I just wish that I could do something for Ella . . ." Her eyes squinted a little. "I'll be out of here tomorrow. Dr. Andrews said I'll be free to go after today."

And then Evie perked up. "I know it's probably not my place to ask, but . . . well, some of our friends are having an Independence Day party, and Ella was invited—"

"Yes," Mrs. Mitchell cut in, a grin spreading across her lips. She nodded at Evie. "Make her go. Drag her if you have to." She shook her head lightly. "Make her have some fun."

Evie returned the smile, genuinely, her hand reaching out to hold Mrs. Mitchell's. "I will." Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, she made her way to the door, looking back in for a second. "Thanks a lot. I hope you get better soon."

There was a small twinkle in the woman's eyes. "Thank _you_."

* * *

 _Fire. Sirens. Gunshots._

Dallas jerked up quickly, instantly regretting his actions. An immediate headache brought on by another hangover made him feel green. Also, the childish face of Angela Shepard was looming in front of him, and his brows furrowed as he realized he was in the Shepard's living room, the uncomfortable lumps of their couch digging into his back. He glared at the kid in front of him, instantly becoming irritated with her very presence.

"What the hell are you doin', brat?" he bit out, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

Angela scowled. "You were mumbling shit in your sleep. I was trying to wake you."

The blond rubbed at his face, annoyed with Angela's thin but raspy voice. Glory, but she'd always had an annoying voice, and dealing with a hangover and listening to her made him want to puke his guts up—Lord almighty, what in the hell time was it? And how in the hell had he ended up at the Shepard's house? Hell, he must have been out of it real bad to crash at their place—nobody in their right mind wanted to wake up to any of the siblings, or worse yet, deal with their mother or their step-daddy, no sirree bub. Dallas could deal with Leon, though, he wasn't as bad as his own father, not even close.

"What time is it, kid?" he asked, sitting up slowly.

Angela shrugged. "Ten or something." And then she glared at him, hard. "You know, I ain't a kid, Dallas, so quit callin' me that."

"Yeah, right," he mumbled. "Ain't a kid, my ass. What're you? Thirteen?"

"I'll be fifteen, dumbass." She sounded surely proud, and for a moment, Dallas was reminded of Pony, who had always been sensitive about his age, though that was mostly because he was the youngest in the gang. "And ya know what else? I may only be fourteen now, but at least I don't act like you, fallin' all over my big brother drunk as a skunk and practically incoherent . . ."

She trailed on, and Dallas wanted nothing more than to tell her to fuck off. His head was pounding the longer he sat there and listened to her ramble on and on and on, like a broken record. With as much speed that he could muster, he stood up and lightly shoved her aside, telling her to shut her trap before he whacked her upside the head, not that he really would, and they both knew that. Even Tim, who had gotten pissed off at his kid sister, never laid a hand on her. He'd knocked Curly around some, not enough to really mess him up, but not Angela.

Speaking of Tim, the older hood rounded the corner, and Dallas had to rest his hand on the side wall to keep himself from falling into him. He had no inclination of how he'd gotten to that house, or why Angela was yapping away about Tim bringing him there—he had no recollection of anything from the night before. What he did know, however, was that he felt sick, there was a party that evening, and Steve Randle was racing Paul Hopkins down the Ribbon later that night. That had perked his interest, and he straightened himself a little as he nodded at Tim.

"What happened last night?" he asked, sounding dehydrated. He licked his lips, his mouth drier than the Sahara Desert.

Angela sighed in the background. "You were acting like a drunken imbecile."

"Angela," Tim scolded, "beat it, would ya?"

Rolling her eyes, the black-haired girl took off toward her room, muttering shit under her breath. Her bedroom door slammed closed a moment later, the sound causing Dally to grit his teeth. Tim's sister was a real pain in the ass.

"So?" Dallas scowled, waiting for an answer.

Tim's arms were crossed, an almost disappointed expression crossing his face. "Found ya under the bridge with Cherie Peters."

And the blond almost snorted. "Cherie?" He tried to remember any of that, but all that came to mind was a blank. "I must've been real out of it to go with that broad."

"You were," Tim responded lowly. His gaze was boring into the younger teen. "The hell is goin' on with you, Winston?"

The younger teen sneered, not liking the tone in Tim's voice, as if he were making an accusation. Now, Tim and Dallas always had a unique friendship—messing with each other just for kicks, getting drunk together, stealing one another's girlfriends . . . the list was never ending. Thing was, though, that no matter how they fought, they would always be there for each other in the end. They were two of a kind, and there was no denying it. The difference was that Tim had more responsibilities than Dallas, who was more of a free spirit, wild and impulsive. Tim, on the other hand, needed organization, and he was strict and disciplined, stern and somewhat controlling. But they knew each other, and they understood each other, so when Tim found Dallas three sheets to the wind, fucking off with Cherie Peters, he knew that something was up.

"What?" the blond asked, his anger beginning to flare and becoming present through his voice. "Ain't I allowed to fuck off every now and again, Shepard—get my rocks off? You tryin' to play guardian to me now?"

The black-haired teen rolled his eyes, his hard face expressing bitterness. "I thought you were done with that broad."

"I am."

"Sure didn't look it to me."

Dallas raised an ashy brow. "Why? You interested in her or somethin'?" The question was dripping with sarcasm, a condescending look in his eyes. "Didn't think she was really your type, though."

The corners of Tim's mouth curved up ever so slightly, but his eyes remained blank. He wouldn't go anywhere near a broad like Cherie, not even for kicks, and they both knew that. But Dallas understood the silent look his buddy was giving him, and while neither one of them would ever say it out loud, they were both looking out for each other. While Dallas didn't mind any type of girl who offered to put out for him, Tim was more solid in his preferences—Cherie didn't fall into that category. Besides, he had a strict rule against druggies. It didn't matter to Dally, though, because he answered to no one, and he didn't have to set an example the way Tim Shepard had to, and they both knew that drugs and that kinda shit messed up gangs. Tim didn't run with that crowd, and neither did Dally, but Cherie was a good-lookin' girl who was practically throwing herself at him, so why should he deny himself any sort of pleasure? Dally was certain that Tim wouldn't have opened his mouth if Cherie was more like Sylvia—at least she didn't shoot up or nothin' like that.

After a minute, Tim shook his head, his posture slouching a little as he leaned back against the kitchen wall. "I heard one of your boys, Randle, was racing Paul Hopkins tonight."

"Sure is," the blond answered proudly, and grinned. "And won't that be somethin' for Hopkins when Randle blows his ass right off the line." He shook his head and mumbled under his breath, "Dumbass."

"Speaking of Hopkins," Tim said, his face once again turning serious, "The River Kings are starting to move in on my territory."

At this, the younger hood's brow raised with sudden intrigue. He hadn't heard anything interesting that regarded the gangs, or what was going on in town, in a while. Training for the rodeo and working for Buck had been keeping him busy for the last few weeks, and come to think of it, he figured it was time to get himself back in the know.

Tim always had the scoop about everything, and Dally knew that if he was the one relaying information, it was most likely true. The two of them always held a form of dislike for the River Kings, but Daxon Jones, the leader, and Tim were on mutual terms, or so it had seemed. But if he was allowing his gang to do business in Shepard's turf, there would probably be another territory warfare. It was well known, though, that Shepard's outfit had claimed the downtown backstreets and allies before the bridge, where it turned into King's turf. Brumly was a little ways down, and then there was the Tiber Street Tigers, who were in closer range of the Curtis gang, who were downtown, but not as far as Shepard's crew. Dallas's father's house was actually in Shepard's territory, which was how the two had come to meet so many years ago . . .

"Yeah?" Dally yawned. "What'd Jones have to say about that?"

"Don't got a clue."

He snorted. "Sure he don't."

Tim's arms crossed as he eyed the blond. "How would you feel about a doin' a job with me?"

* * *

Ella's lips were pressed into a thin line. "No, Evie," she said after a minute of listening to the younger girl talk about the party that evening, as well as Steve's race. "I can't go. I told you that I wasn't going to be able to make it—"

"I spoke to your mom," Evie interrupted. "And she gave me permission to use whatever force that I think is necessary to get you out to have some fun." Her eyes pressed into the older teen's. "Now, do I have to drag you by your hair, Ella?"

There was a silence that engulfed them, Ella's expression souring by the second. "You spoke to my mother?" she asked, sounding skeptical. "When?"

"This morning," the brunette answered quietly. "I covered a shift for Sarah Jennings, and I stopped in to see how your mom was doin'." She sighed. "We got to talkin', and well, she said that you should go out and have fun tonight." Her eyes scanned the inside of Ella's house as the older girl's arms seemed to tighten around her middle, her body pressing closer to the arm of the couch. Evie's expression dropped a little at the deflated posture of her friend, so she stepped further inside and sat down beside her. "Ella, I know," she said softly. When her friend's eyes met hers, widening, Evie could only sympathize. "I know about your mom's cancer, and I know . . ." She paused, her own voice suddenly cracking.

Ella's eyes were turning glassy, and suddenly, her cheeks were becoming moist. "I . . . I can't. I just—" She began sniffling, then, her hands covering her face in shame and humiliation. "I'm sorry, Evie, but I don't—"

And then Evie's arm was draped around her shoulders, the brown-haired girl only tearing up all the more. Ella's hand was gripping her own only a second later, and she felt her own eyes beginning to tear up, her stomach tightening with each passing second. All was silent, save for Ella's low sobs, and Evie could only do her best to comfort her friend. She wondered why this was happening to Ella, or why everyone she knew always had something horrible come their way. Evie didn't understand it, but she silently thanked whatever almighty power out there that she still had both of her parents, her kid sister, a good boyfriend, and decent friends. But looking at Ella just then made her feel overwhelmed with guilt—she shouldn't have pried her so hard, she thought, feeling ashamed.

"I could . . . stay here with you, or we could go see your mom together," she offered after several minutes. She smiled softly as Ella's hands uncovered her pale face. "We don't have to go to the party."

But Ella shook her head, wiping at her mascara stained cheeks. "Yes we do," she countered. "Besides, I know how anxious you are to see Steve race Paul, and I could never ask that of you . . . to keep you away from your friends and boyfriend."

" _Your_ friends, too," Evie pointed out, and winked. "Besides, I know a certain somebody who will be there tonight, and . . ." Her brows wiggled a little.

Ella immediately chuckled, cheeks tinting pink. "Alright, alright. We'll go."

Outside, Evie was grinning largely, her eyes bright and eager, but inside, like Ella, some part of her was beginning to crumble and fall apart.

* * *

Ponyboy wasn't sure why, but he just . . . didn't like Mary. As promised, Soda had brought her back to the house with him after work, and then the four of them had left together to head to the Ribbon. There were all kinds of events going on, kids running around with sparklers, the sound of laughter, teens running off together . . . and then there was Sodapop, Steve, and Two-Bit, who were blowing off fireworks a little ways passed Darry's truck. Dally had shown up, but he didn't stay in one place for too long. Instead, he had walked off, dropping a few lit M-80's around people for kicks, even if it wasn't exactly funny to certain people, who had jumped a mile high when it went off just behind, or next to, them. Darry had scampered off to chat with a few guys he knew in high school, and Ponyboy had made his way around, hanging with Curly Shepard for a while, some guys from school, and then Ella, though she and Evie were sticking close by each other.

Then there was Mary, who barely spoke to anyone, only saying "Hi" when Soda had introduced her to everyone. She was small and petite with olive toned skin and big brown eyes. Her hair was long, falling down her back in dark waves. There were a few splattered freckles on her face, too, and she always seemed to have her hands folded in front of herself, as if she were nervous. She didn't seem the least bit intimidating—even Sandy had socialized more when she was around. Mary was just quiet and shy, and she could hardly look someone in the face, almost seeming to recoil or freeze up when too much attention was on her, like a deer in headlights. Soda had stuck close to her, only leaving her side when Two-Bit showed up with a few spare fireworks, an impish look plastered on his face as he ushered him and Steve away. Mary was left sitting on the back of Darry's truck, a bottle of Pepsi in her hand, a half-eaten hot dog beside her on its wrapping.

Pony had noticed Ella glancing over at Soda's girlfriend every few minutes, almost looking like she wanted to talk to her, and when Evie finally peeked over at the girl, too, they shared a look and made their way over to her. Ponyboy just didn't want to talk to her, plain and simple. He figured he probably would sound immature and downright rotten, but he couldn't help it. Perhaps he was just assuming she was going to be like Sandy, but the expression in her eyes and the nervous vibes she gave off let the younger teen know that she wasn't brazen enough to pull a stunt like that. And the way she looked at Soda . . . her eyes lit up and her face glowed.

With a feeling of deep reluctance, he followed behind Evie and Ella, shoving his hands inside his pockets as he made his way over to where Mary sat by her lonesome. By the time he got there, though, Evie and Ella were already re-introducing themselves, but at the sound of his shoes crunching the sand pebbles beneath his feet, Ella turned around and offered him a soft smile.

"Hey, Pony," she said, and the red-headed teen wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of alcohol wafting off her breath, a sign that Evie had gotten her to drink.

He feigned a smile. "Hey." Nodding once to Mary and Evie, he figured that he ought to be somewhat polite to his brother's girl, not wanting to ruin his or anyone else's night. "So, Mary, right?"

* * *

By the time Steve and Paul had raced, Ella was feeling pretty good. Not good enough to forget her troubles, but relaxed enough to let them go for the time being. She had been hanging around Evie the majority of the night, until Steve had left Paul Hopkins in a trail of dust and smoke. Everyone was celebrating his win, Paul and his boys looking angry in the background. They had cleared out, though, and the only people left in their group were Steve, Evie, Soda, Mary, and Two-Bit. Darry had left, taking Ponyboy with him, and when he'd offered Ella a ride home, the girl had politely declined, as she had promised Evie she would stay. And poor Mary . . .

The dark-haired girl seemed so out of place, like Ella herself, and she felt bad. Ella had a feeling that Ponyboy was holding his brother's girlfriend with some form of contempt, but why he was, or why she had that feeling, she wasn't sure. He seemed to stiffen up whenever he was around her, and whenever she spoke, or revealed something about herself, his face would twist up with annoyance. Ella felt bad, really she did, because Mary seemed like such a nice girl. Apparently, nobody had heard of her because she had attended private school from a young age, and even though she was sixteen turning seventeen, she had just graduated that year. She was an aspiring ballerina who loved books and classical music, reserved and very quiet—the complete opposite of Soda. But it wasn't missed how the two would catch each other's eyes and smile like a million bucks.

As the night simmered on, Ella felt better than she had in a while. Perhaps Evie had been right—she really just needed to get out, even if only for a few measly hours. It had definitely done her good, she noted, the alcohol in her system having done some wonders for her relaxed and mellowed mood. She was watching the guys goof off, well Two-Bit mostly—Steve had an arm wrapped around Evie's shoulders while they sat in front of the small bonfire, and Soda was trying to get Mary to dance with him to the music playing from somebody's car down the lot. Ella was leaning on the side of Steve's truck, her arms placed over the ledge, chin resting on her folded hands as she watched her friends with a small smile.

If only things could be this perfect forever, she thought. If only.

"Hey, sweets."

The girl nearly jumped, her Utopian state of mind abruptly fading away as she jerked to the side to see Dallas Winston standing beside her, a cigarette secured between his lips, a devilish expression in his blue eyes, which seemed to be almost enlarged by firelight. Her lips parted as she stared at him for a second, surprised to see him after a month. His hair was a lot longer, she noticed, his skin darker from the Summer sun with a tinge of red from working outside so long. Feeling her cheeks heating up, she turned back ahead, trying to ignore the goosebumps trailing up her arms from his presence so close to her.

"Hi, Dallas," she replied, fingers enclosing around the ledge of the truck. "How've you been?"

The blond smirked. "Better." He glanced down at her, then, taking in her appearance with a blank look; golly, but did this girl know what the sun was? In a flock of sun-kissed skin and lightened hair, Ella stuck out like a sore thumb with her pasty complexion and Cousin Itt-like locks. She appeared worn, though, just like Shepard had mentioned, her eyes dull and tired. "How's your old lady?" he decided to ask, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Ella's head jerked in his direction, surprise evident on her face. But then she assumed that he'd heard through Steve from Evie, or Ponyboy. "She's okay," she answered, her voice filled with disbelief. "She won't be in the hospital much longer. The doctor said she could leave tomorrow afternoon."

Dallas nodded. "Good."

They were silent for a moment, and Ella chewed her lip nervously. She stole a glance up at him quickly, realizing that he was surveying the scene in front of them with a mischievous expression, no longer interested in speaking with her. Still, Ella didn't want him to go just yet, so she attempted to strike up a conversation, her hands turning clammy.

"How's your Summer been?"

He made a sound like a grunt. "Been fine." Digging around his pant pocket, his lips curved up, eyes seeming to spark to life as he held a small object in his hand. "Wanna see somethin' funny?" And too late did she realize what he meant by "funny", for Dallas was already lighting the small wick, a grin spreading across his mouth as his lips curled back.

Ella's eyes went stark wide, jaw spilling, as the firecracker went soaring through the air, disappearing in the darkness and landing somewhere by their group of friends. It took all of a few seconds, if that, before it exploded, causing shrieks from both Evie and Mary, laughter from Soda and Steve, and a bag of chips blowing open and catching fire beside Two-Bit, the contents flying across his lap and all around him, sending a bottle of Pepsi to the ground.

"Winston, you little son-of-a-gun!" Two-Bit shouted, although there was laughter clearly audible in his voice; he wasn't the slightest bit mad.

Dallas was chuckling quietly to himself, and he turned to wink once at Ella before taking off, leaving her standing there once again by her lonesome, her lips turning up into a genuine smile.

 _All the nights spent off our faces_

 _Trying to find these perfect places_

 _What the fuck are perfect places anyway?_

* * *

 **Feedback is always appreciated!  
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 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	4. A True Nature's Child

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Steppenwolf owns "Born to Be Wild."**

* * *

 _I like smoke and lightning_

 _Heavy metal thunder_

 _Racin' with the wind_

 _And the feelin' that I'm under_

 **July 7, 1966**

Ella rubbed a hand over her forehead, wiping the sweat beads away. The laundromat was terribly hot, and she wished that her shift was over—she really despised this job. At least the grocery store was air conditioned, but not this place, not at all. This was her fourth day working there, and she'd learned fairly quickly that there was absolutely no point in straightening her frizzy locks anymore, for they would only puff back up, making her look like a replica of Einstein—good Lord—by the end of her shift. If only she and her mother didn't need the money so badly to pay all of the bills, Ella would have never applied at this godawful place—no sirree bub.

Folding the last towel for Mrs. Johnson, Ella placed the neatly pressed and finished laundry into the basket and set it aside along with the other completed loads. Her fingers were sore from dry cleaning, ironing, and folding all day, and her arms ached something awful, not to mention her feet, which she had been standing on all day long. She thought about her shift at the store the next day and internally winced, figuring that she could really do with a new pair of shoes. The ones she had on were old and worn, and golly did her feet heat up and cramp like hell.

She never complained, though, instead going about her work silently. She missed Jan's company at the store terribly so, but she needed the extra money, and for what she was doing at the laundromat, she was making more than what she did at the store, so she had made that her secondary job, wishing more than anything that she didn't have to be in this predicament. But at least she was able to see Jan three times a week—Friday and Saturday evenings, and Sunday mornings—so it worked out.

Ginger, the assistant manger, suddenly called her name out with a screech like sound. "Mitchell!" And before Ella could blink, Mrs. Johnson's basket was thrust back in front of her on the folding table, Ginger glaring down at her with a sneer. "Mrs. Johnson likes her colors separated! Fix this at once. I won't tolerate any form of insubordination from you, Miss Mitchell." And when Ella didn't move quickly enough, her eyes broad with sheer humiliation, Ginger snapped and dumped the basket over so that all the clean and folded clothes tumbled out, some landing on the floor around Ella's feet, and dropped it back on the table with a loud _thud._ "You'll need to clean those again."

Ella's shoulders slumped as she bent down to clean the mess up, too tired to argue. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she found a small blister forming on the palm of her hand just below her middle finger, the skin no longer as soft as it used to be.

* * *

Daxon Jones was a tiny little prick, one that Dallas desperately wanted to beat to a pulp. Leader of the River Kings, Jones was short and stocky with slicked back ash-blond hair that covered the entirety of his neck. His eyes were a washed out green color, rounded and squinty in a sharp and narrowed face, his chin jutted out into a thin point, noodle arms crossed over his chest as he glared across the room at Dallas and Tim with an expression that reflected innate anger, but looked almost comical contrasted with his small frame—Dallas actually thought he resembled a garden gnome, if only he had a pointed hat on his head.

"I told ya, I ain't got no clue 'bout them boys bein' on yer turf," he stated, exhaling hardly through his sloped nose. His vocabulary wasn't much to speak of, either. "Now, if that's all yer here fer, y'all can just beat it, ya hear?"

Dallas knew Tim well enough to read the forming expression on his face, and although it was subtle and wouldn't be picked up by a lot of people, Dally could read the underlying look. Tim was livid, but he didn't act quite on impulse—no, he was silent. His anger had always been deeply brewed, leveled, and calculating. He was pissed because Jones knew that his boys were moving in on his turf, selling dope and attracting attention while Tim was trying to lie low for a while, especially after one of his boys had gotten caught up in some kind of murder charge just two weeks ago. Apparently, he and Curly had been close, so it was only another excuse for the fuzz to keep a closer eye on Tim. Dallas wasn't dumb—he knew that after Johnny killed that Soc kid, the fuzz had been a helluva lot more stricter on their side of town, just looking for any excuse to arrest their kind.

"Yeah, we'll beat it," Tim responded, low and monotone. He stood up alongside Dallas, Jones following suit. "Just know that if I catch any of your boys on my turf, they ain't walkin' away with just a warning, if they walk at all." He eyed the shorter man critically, gaze never faltering. "You can give that message to Dylan, too."

Daxon's face immediately twisted at the mention of his kid brother. It was no secret that the twenty-year-old hood was somewhat protective of him, being three years older. Tim was the same way with Curly, but at least Curly had enough brains to not do stupid shit that Tim warned him about, like getting messed up with drugs, or a murder rap—that would be the last fucking thing he needed. Dylan was two years older than Curly Shepard, though, and while Curly was considered dumb, just a plain downtown hood, Tim was certain that Dylan Jones's common stupidity exceeded that of his own brother's, and that wasn't saying much.

As Tim and Dallas headed out the door, Daxon smirked. "I forgot to ask, Shepard, but how's your little sister doin'?" His tone was brazen and cocky. "I hear its a great view from the back with her face in the pillow . . ."

It was a low blow, and Dally knew it. You just didn't bring the women into gang related shit, it was common rule. Mentioning Dylan was one thing—he might have been Daxon's kid brother, but when it boiled down to it to other hoods, he was one, too. Angela was just a kid, an annoying, sassy one, but still—she wasn't even fifteen yet, and she was a girl. Curly was turning sixteen, and while he was known all around as Tim's roughneck, kid brother, he had set his own reputation. You just didn't bring the chicks into it—mothers, sisters, girlfriends—so when Tim jolted around, storming right back inside Daxon's house and socking the little fucker right in the teeth, Dally wasn't the least bit surprised. The satisfying crunch of Tim's fist making contact with Daxon's face was a glorious sound indeed.

What Dally wasn't expecting, however, was for Dylan Jones to jump on his back, shoving him down to the floor with a loud growl. Dallas didn't even have a chance to react as his body landed on the old and worn carpet, his arms jutting out to lessen the impact of the fall. Holy shit, but Dylan might have been small like his brother, but he was a little plump for his size, and his weight went a long way. He hadn't seen him coming—the twerp must have snuck around the front and ran at him before his ears could even fully register the sound of his boots on the caving porch.

It took all but a minute for Dallas to flip himself over, swinging his leg back to kick Dylan anywhere that he could. The little shit had the same cocky look as his big brother, the only difference in their appearances being Dylan's darker hair, which was more of a sandy brown. Their features were otherwise similar, but where Daxon was short and small-framed, even being somewhat stocky, Dylan was all around plump, and while he wasn't the best of fighters, his heavier weight was enough to knock some of the wind out of Dallas.

They fought in a mess out fists, grunts, and groans, and behind them, Tim and Daxon were still going at it, making their way into the kitchen and barreling across the makeshift table. The string of profanities coming from all four boys was loud and obscene, and only when Dylan flicked his blade out, cutting Dallas's arm, did the blond see red. With blood pouring out of his arm, he leaped at Dylan, shoving him back as hard as could until his body smashed against the wall, the breath knocked out of him as Dallas swung a hard fist straight into his face, his nose breaking against the impact. That was all it took for Dylan to drop like a sack of potatoes, a slow moan of pain falling from his mouth as he dropped on the floor, head lolling to the side. Fucker.

Tim stepped out of the kitchen a second later, sporting a blackening eye. The two eyed each other for a moment before leaving Jones's house, Daxon limping out to the living room behind them to tend to his kid brother. His face contorted into a sinister glower, and he moved back to his full height, hands balling into fists as he left Tim and Dallas with one warning.

"This ain't over, Shepard." He wrinkled his nose at Dallas for good measure, his brother's blood coated blade pointed in their direction. "Just watch your backs."

* * *

"Ponyboy?"

The red-headed teen glanced up from his book, jaw practically spilling open at the person standing in front of him—Soda's girlfriend, Mary DeVaney. She looked almost as surprised to see him, but she offered him a small smile whereas his countenance remained fixed. Ponyboy didn't like being rude, and he certainly didn't enjoy being mean to girls, whether they deserved it or not. Mary hadn't done a thing to him to earn his dislike, but he wasn't sure what it was about her that he didn't dig. Perhaps it was the largeness of her eyes, which always looked like she was frightened? Or the nervous vibe she gave off? Or her long and dark hair? Or just the brown coloring of her eyes? Or maybe it was her voice, which shook a little when she spoke, as if she couldn't speak to anyone without feeling judged.

The younger teen wasn't sure he could fathom why a girl like Mary DeVaney would have anything to be afraid of. She was an attractive girl, an aspiring ballerina, and she was dressed decently, almost as if she were from a comfortable household, not like his side of town. No, Mary was a good girl, that much was certain, so why he couldn't make himself like her, he didn't know.

"Hi, Mary," he replied, simply to be courteous.

Her arms immediately folded in front of herself, fingers curling tighter around the book in her hand. "I thought that was you," she said, relaxing a little. "Do you come here often?"

He nodded, glancing around the library. "Sometimes."

Mary's lips only spread wider at that, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Soda said that you liked to read a lot." She eyed the book in his hands. "That was a good read, a little disturbing in some parts, but really good otherwise."

Ponyboy's brows raised ever so slightly, surprised that a girl like Mary would indulge herself in reading Ken Kesey's _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest._ She didn't seem like the type of person that would read a book quite like that. Then again, remembering Sandy Vincent, he never imagined her to be the type of girl to cheat on his brother and end up pregnant with another man's child. The thought still made his skin crawl, but he didn't like thinking about Sandy, or what happened back in September. He just didn't want to think about any of that, and he was slightly irked that Mary's presence, or her speaking to him, or anything about her, had reminded him of those days. Actually, he was annoyed that Soda would mention him to this girl to begin with, but Soda had always been proud of his family, and he was always eager to talk about their accomplishments any time that he could. But with Ponyboy, Mary knowing anything about him made him feel . . . defensive.

"Sure," he decided to say, lifting the book back in front of his face, hoping she would take the hint that he wasn't in the mood to talk.

But she hadn't, and she went on trying to stir up a conversation with him. "Are you enjoying it so far?"

"I just started it."

"Oh." Her eyes lowered, face reflecting mild embarrassment. "Well, I won't spoil it for you, then. But I did want to ask you about your book, if you have a minute." His gaze met hers, brows pulling together as he waited for her to continue. "Well, Soda said that you wrote a really wonderful story, and that it was being published soon. I was wondering when it would be on the market."

Ponyboy wasn't sure what caused his anger to flare more—the fact that she might read his work, or that Soda had told her about it to begin with. He knew he was being immature, but he just couldn't help it, and while he knew that his next words could possibly hurt his brother's girlfriend, he couldn't stop them before they flew out of his mouth, harsh and cutting.

"Yeah, well, I'm surprised he's been able to tell you anything about me or Darry, or my book, since he's always going on about you," he bit out. "But that's okay, I wouldn't want you to read it anyway." He didn't have a chance to see her reaction, because he slammed his book closed and stood up in one fluid motion, making his way out of the library, the book forgotten on the table. He didn't want to finish it now, because Mary had read it, and he didn't want her to know anything about him, or what he'd done, or read, or . . . anything.

Mary's face registered sheer hurt. She had a feeling that Ponyboy didn't exactly like her, and though she wasn't sure why, some part of her understood. She was used to being alone, though, and that was okay with her. She wouldn't say anything, or even mention the incident, but with a sad smile, she reached for the book Ponyboy had left on the table and brought it with her up front to check out.

* * *

Ella was positive that she stood out badly against everyone else in the Summer sun. Her skin was so pale and pasty, save for the sprinkled freckles across her face, that she could have passed for a walking corpse. It didn't help that when she stood next to Evie Martin that she looked even paler, but then again, Evie's skin was tanned to begin with—not very dark, but it had a natural and healthy glow, unlike Ella's, which was incredibly milky and probably made everyone else require sunglasses just to look in her direction. Lord, but even Dallas, who was naturally light-skinned—though not like her—had a tan, and he looked . . . good, _real good_ , in fact.

The brown-haired girl felt her cheeks heating up, and it wasn't just from the weather, although it was so terribly hot out. Even her white capris, that stopped just below her knees, and her pale blue blouse, which she had rolled up and tied off on one side so that it stopped just above the waist of her pants, weren't enough to keep her cool. She had twisted her long hair into a braid and wrapped it around into a bun to keep it from sticking to her face and neck, but her entire body felt hot and sweaty. Oh, blast it, she thought miserably, but she wished she had a car instead of having to walk home. Unfortunately, her mother's Impala needed to be looked at, but Ella couldn't afford a mechanic at the moment, not with all the bills piled up on the kitchen table. Oh, but she couldn't let the car sit, either, she knew, but there was nothing that she could do at the moment.

The laundromat wasn't terribly far from her neighborhood, but walking in the heat, even if it was cooling off for the evening, made it seem _that much_ longer. Ella sighed, coming to a stop at the intersection, wiggling her toes around to ease the cramping of her feet. Fix the car or get new shoes, she debated silently to herself, crossing the street. She'd get her paycheck tomorrow afternoon, but that was for one of the medical bills . . .

Ella wanted to groan, throw her hands up in the air . . . _something_ , but she could only roll her eyes. At this point, what else _could_ she do? Being well organized, she considered her income, the bills, the car, and new sneakers, and decided that she could walk to and from work for another week before her next paycheck, and then she would have the car fixed, wait until her paycheck from the laundromat, and see if there was enough to get herself a good pair of sneakers. It would take roughly about three weeks, but she would manage—she had to.

Too busy being engrossed in her thoughts was she that Ella didn't realize the jutted out leg in front of her until she almost tripped over it, her face contorting into shock, eyes going wide as she glanced up to see Dallas Winston leaning back against the side of the liquor store casually smoking a cigarette, his lips pulling back into a smirk as he glanced down at her.

"Are you trying to trip me?" she asked, not bothering to conceal the annoyance in her voice.

But that only made him grin. "Somethin' like that." His gaze trailed over her frame. "What're you doin' walkin' the streets?"

The girl wanted to huff, but she didn't. "It's only five thirty, Dallas. And I don't exactly have a car right now, so . . ."

He cocked an eyebrow, not missing the frustration seeping through her tone. "What happened to your old lady's car?"

Throwing her head back, Ella's aggravation surfaced. "It's a long story, Dallas, one I'm sure you really wouldn't be interested in. Besides"—She frowned—"I really ought to be getting home."

"Well," he replied, and turned around, cupping his hand around his face to peer inside the liquor store, trying to get a better view of the clock above the register. Well, damn, he thought, Dopey was right on the money—it was five thirty two. He turned back to face her, an amused look plastering his face. "I got time, sweets." And really, he did. It wasn't like he was doing anything anyway, well, except maybe paying a long awaited visit to Linda Holland, but that wouldn't be until much later, when it was safe enough to sneak through her window.

Ella stared at him, trying to ignore how she felt. She had been doing a fine job of forgetting about him, or at least, trying to, but every time they encountered one another, it was as if she had never tried to begin with. It angered her that Dallas Winston had that effect on her, not that she would play into it, but still . . . Strangely, though, Dallas was being decent to her, a different act entirely from how he used to treat her. Then again, the last time they had seen each other—before the bonfire—he had been decent to her, too. She didn't exactly consider them friends, but she figured they might as well have been on friendly terms.

Sighing, she caved. "It broke down, and I don't have the money to get it looked at yet."

"Bummer," came the bland response. Crushing the cigarette beneath his heel, he causally asked, "Your mother outta the hospital yet?"

She nodded. "She came home Monday afternoon." A frown. "She can't work, though. The doctor has her on medication for the pain and everything, so it's been a little rough, but it'll be okay." She smiled a little as the two fell in step. "I'm working it out, and hopefully, I should have enough money to get the car checked out the following week."

He digested that information, swaggering alongside her. "The store givin' you more hours or somethin' now that it's Summer?"

Ella felt her chest tighten at the inquiry. It was a general question, but to Ella, it felt like somebody had stepped on her chest and was forcing the air out of her. She wasn't sure why she felt almost humiliated for having to admit that she had to get another job to pay the bills, but she did. Ella was never too much of a proud girl, and she certainly never felt sorry for herself, but right then, she felt a little off.

"I got another job," she admitted quietly. "The store is my secondary income right now." Glancing at him and taking in his almost perplexed expression, she continued. "I'm working at the laundromat."

The blond cocked an eyebrow. "You're workin' at the laundromat?" Despite the surprise in his voice, the question wasn't asked with indignance. "Since when?"

"Since Monday morning."

He shook his head. "Don't you have any time to yerself?"

The ground suddenly became interesting to watch the further they walked. "Not really."

Dallas wasn't sure why, but listening to Ella talk about that shit was bumming him out. In fact, she was beginning to remind him of Darry, working all day, every day, looking and sounding worn out, and for some reason, he didn't like it. He'd never been overly fond of Ella Mitchell, but Christ almighty, she almost sounded pathetic—it was something he didn't want to hear from her. Of course, everyone dealt with shit, went through it, lived with it, but Ella looked so lifeless and dull that he almost wanted to knock her the hell around and make her do something . . . something other than work.

"What happened to your arm?"

His face twisted, and glancing down at her, he followed her gaze to his arm where Dylan Jones had knifed him earlier that afternoon. "Nothin', girl," he answered, and up ahead, he spotted just the kinda fun he could take pleasure in. Ella was yapping away beside him, but he was too focused on the red '64 Cutlass Supreme parked on the side of the road, not a soul in sight. An impish grin stretched across his face the more he stared, Ella's voice already faded into the background and forgotten. Finally, he turned to face her, and nodded toward the Olds. "Wanna have some fun, sweets?"

Ella's brows shifted together. "What do you mean by fun?" But Dallas was already walking away from her and heading toward the car, his eyes scouting the area carefully. Ella went after him, hissing his name through her teeth. "What are—"

Dallas continued to ignore her, squeezing his arm through the half-opened window and unlocking the driver's side door, a grim smile on his face. This was just _too_ good, he thought, searching quickly for keys, before realizing that he'd have to hot-wire the car. It wasn't a big deal to him—he'd done worse—but listening to Ella's frantic, though quiet, cries was getting on his nerves. Even though he was facing away from her, he rolled his eyes, sliding down to get to work. It didn't take long at all for him to get the car started, and then he was up in a flash, jumping into the driver's seat and raising his eyebrows at Ella, as if he was challenging her. He revved the engine, grinning devilishly through the window at her stricken face, shock written all over it.

"You better get inside, girl, or I'm leavin' your ass here, and then you can deal with the fuzz if they show," he said, testing her all the more. "You comin' or what?"

Ella's heart was fluttering in her chest so hard, she thought it might explode. But against her better judgment and moral code, she took the bait and ran to the passenger side, climbing inside next to the blond-headed hood, her hands clammy, a frightened expression on her face. Oh, Lord, she hated Dallas Winston, she was sure, _hated_ him, but at the same time, there was a small part of her that was secretly excited, that was almost enjoying being . . . wild like this. She wasn't even a second inside the car before Dallas sped away, cutting the corner at top speed and causing a loud shriek to pass through her lips, her eyes squeezing shut and gripping the seat as tightly as she could.

Dallas was silently laughing beside her, and inside, Ella was bursting with a new sensation she had never felt before.

* * *

Ponyboy was leisurely drumming his fingers on his desk, a focused look on his face. He wanted to ask Dally to read his book, but he was certain that the older teen would think he was crazy, and if he asked him for permission to use his name, he would probably scoff and ask what for. Ponyboy really didn't want to bring any of it up to him, but he had no choice. He'd considered taking Darry up on his offer to talk to the blond-headed hood for him, but then Dallas would think he was soft, or scared of him, which was the last thing he wanted.

With a sigh, the fourteen-year-old thumbed through his proof, eyeing the cover with a frown. He could remember the events that he'd written about like they had only happened the day before. The wounds were still so fresh, and when he thought about Johnny, he felt his heart plummet into his stomach. He had left him with nothing more than two words of advice and a note that had been securely placed in his copy of _Gone with the Wind._ But then he remembered that he'd given the note to Dallas back in December when he'd asked for it . . .

Oh, glory, Ponyboy thought. A scowl formed on his face as he remembered that particular day. He had thought that he'd gotten Dally to open up a little, even if it was barely so. But he had asked to hold onto Johnny's letter, and of course, Ponyboy had no qualms with it—not then, at least. That letter would be the only thing he would need to convince Dally to read his book and give him his consent to use his name. He would think Ponyboy was making him out to be a blasted pansy, he was certain, but he would prove to him that that wasn't the case, not by far. Considering the fact that he had outright asked Tim Shepard for permission to use his name was hilarious in itself, and though Tim still unnerved him, he had been pretty tuff about the whole thing.

He decided that he was going to talk to Dally one way or the other, but first, he really needed to get that letter back . . .

* * *

Ella couldn't hear anything but the blaring music from the car radio, the wind whipping her face and humming in her ears, the feeling of freedom running hot through her veins. That is what it was like, she thought, being with Dallas—free, like every care she ever had suddenly dissolved, the need for everything else no longer a priority. She wished she could feel like this all the time, like she didn't have to give a damn, or be responsible, or do . . . anything. But then her mother's sickly face entered her mind, and her guilt came back up, eating away at any good feeling she'd been having.

Her eyes slithered in Dallas's direction, and she noticed how relaxed he looked, well, relaxed enough for a person who had just stolen a car and was driving it twenty miles over the speed limit down the highway for the past half hour. Still, she had never seen him this calm before, not even when he was quiet and focusing during their old tutoring sessions. She had always wondered what made Dallas tick, what made him . . . _him_ , and she finally realized what made her so attracted to him. It was the fact that he was a wild and free spirit; he didn't have to worry about the things she did. He was free to come and go as he pleased—he slept wherever, got his food from wherever—there was no set responsibility in his life whatsoever, no cares . . . nothing.

After several minutes, Dallas finally pulled the car over so that he could turn around, his grin long ago removed, the nerves beneath his skin settled but itching for something else. He still couldn't believe that Ella Mitchell was sitting beside him, that she had gotten in the car with him, a stolen one, or that she was still there, quiet as a mouse and hardly able to look at him.

But then she spoke, breaking the silence between them, save for the radio. "Where are we going?"

"Back to town," he answered, casually lighting up another cigarette. "What'd you think?"

"I didn't," she replied, and crossed her arms over her middle. Her face turned serious. "Can I ask you something?"

The blond rolled his eyes. "You just did, stupid."

Ella didn't falter, though, simply trying to remember Ponyboy's book. "You lived in New York, right?"

"Sure did," he answered, almost sounding proud. His face reflected bafflement, though, as if he were wondering why Ella would ask something like that, but he didn't exactly care where she'd gotten her information from. Besides, it wasn't exactly a secret that he'd spent three years on the wild side of New York—most people knew that, even calling him a city slicker a few times in the past. "Why?"

A shrug. "What was it like for you?"

Now that question took him off guard a little. He didn't talk about his past to anyone, ever, unless it was to share a good ol' story about the gangs, and the warfare, and the times he'd gotten locked up. Those stories always left the guys on their toes, or scared stiff, or in awe. He had quite a lot of stories to share, from the way of city life, to living on the streets, to running with gangs, getting locked up at just ten years old . . . But nobody had ever outright asked him what his life was like. Of course, he'd gotten a lot of questions about certain things, especially from Johnny and Ponyboy, but there hadn't been a single person that ever bothered to ask him what it was like for him.

He wasn't sure how to answer Ella, or what to tell her. There were so many ways he could tell how it was like, none that would give her any pleasant dreams or nothin', but it wasn't like any stories of his life were peachy and wonderful—quite the opposite, in fact. But there was one way he could describe it for her, and she could take it any way she wanted.

"Wild."

And with that, he sped back toward town, a grim expression blanketing his face as he stared straight ahead at the setting sun, his past seeming like one giant memory, faded and long forgotten. And he wanted to keep it that way.

 _Like a true nature's child_

 _We were born, born to be wild_

 _We can climb so high_

 _I never wanna die_

* * *

 **There's chapter four, y'all! And so begins the wildness!**

 **Thank you for all of the positive feedback! I appreciate it so much! :3**


	5. Sweet Summertime

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Kenny Chesney owns "Summertime."**

* * *

 _The more things change_

 _The more they stay the same_

 **July 9, 1966**

Evie sat up quickly, removing her sunglasses and staring at her friend with parted lips. Ella's expression was one of guilt, not to mention shock, but there was also some underlying form of humor there, as if she thought the situation was funny. Okay, so maybe Ella Mitchell—the world's biggest outcast, and out of Evie's friends, the most quietest—getting into a stolen vehicle with Tulsa's most notorious hood _was_ a bit comical, but Evie could feel a change in her friend, and surprisingly, she didn't like it. It wasn't even that her expressing this amount of excitement was a bad thing, per se, but it was the shift in her behavior, and even though it was so slight, Evie had picked up on it.

"I'll be damned," she replied, not hiding her astonishment. "Whatever possessed you to do something like that, though?" She shook her head. "If I didn't know you, El, I'd think you were loony! This is Dallas Winston we're talkin' about."

Ella frowned. "I know. I guess it was the heat of the moment." A sigh. "I didn't even want to get in the car with him, but . . . I did. Believe me, I'm not exactly proud, Evie." Her lips pursed as she seemed to be considering her next words. "I wouldn't have ran into him if I had a working car, but seeing that I don't, I suppose it was inevitable."

The brunette's eyes rolled dramatically. She and Steve had done some things that weren't quite legal, and she knew that Steve prowled around and lifted hubcaps, but grand theft auto? That was a whole new level of stupidity that Evie couldn't fathom, and even more than that, she couldn't piece together Ella going along with Dallas Winston, of all people, to do such a thing to begin with. But Evie could only frown. There was some part of her that _could_ understand—she had tried impressing Steve in the beginning of their relationship, but when she'd learned that there was no need, she quit acting like somebody she wasn't and let her true colors shine. And that was just fine and dandy, because Steve liked her for her, and not who she was trying to be to score points with him.

"Just be careful," was her only response regarding the matter. And then her countenance shifted. "What the hell happened to the Impala?"

The older girl's cheeks flushed. "It needs to be looked at, and right now, I don't have the money."

Evie's brows pulled together. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have Steve look at it for ya."

"I couldn't make y'all do that," Ella protested. "I wouldn't have enough to pay him for the labor." Her head bowed, eyes studying the ground of Evie's backyard. The grass was a brilliant green, lush and full, and Ella subconsciously pulled at the strands with her toes. She was glad that it wasn't quite afternoon yet, as it wasn't as hot out. She liked Evie's backyard, though—it was enclosed by trees and blocked the harsher rays of the sun, and even though it had been awfully warm last night while she had spent the night, Evie's room hadn't gotten too congested. "That wouldn't be right, but I do appreciate it."

"Nonsense," Evie said, waving her off. "I'll get Steve to give it a look. I'm sure he'll have it up and running in no time, savvy?" A smile spread about her lips. "'Sides, do you really wanna keep walking to and from work every day in this blasted weather?"

Ella's teeth ground together. "No."

"What I thought," the younger teen quipped. "You busy later this afternoon, then?"

* * *

Soda enjoyed working weekends at Giberson's Auto, even if it was on the rich side of town. He liked it because it meant that he could see Mary, who usually stopped by during his lunch break to hang with him. Golly, he sure liked that girl, liked her a lot—she was the only thing that got him through his shift most weekends. He would think about her smile that was reserved just for him, and the way her eyes would spark to life whenever they looked at each other, and it was as if all his troubles seemed to disappear. Soda had a deep understanding of everyone, regardless of what they were going through, or what they were experiencing, as Ponyboy would say, but sometimes, he didn't understand himself.

When he thought about Mary, and how she made him feel, he couldn't put it into words just what he was experiencing, but glory, it was something he hadn't ever felt before, not even with Sandy—not even close. Surprisingly, it didn't even hurt to think about his ex-girlfriend, and though there were times when he did think about her—even missing her company here and there—it was as if their time together didn't hold as much significance as it once had, not like with Mary anyway. No, when Soda was with Mary, everything he had kept bottled up inside went away, like he was floating on a cloud of innate happiness. Hell, he thought with a wry grin, he was beginning to sound like Ponyboy now.

"Curtis," Anthony Spear, his co-worker, called, "go take your break, kid!"

Soda smiled, wiping his hands on his rag and placing his tools back in their rightful place. Anthony clapped him on the shoulder as he sauntered past him, eager to head out back to wait for his girl. Before he stepped outside, though, he made sure to stop in the restroom to comb his slicked hair into place and wipe away any grease that was smeared on his face or hands. It felt almost silly, but he always tried to look somewhat presentable for Mary, although he was certain that she didn't care how he really looked, so long as they had time to spend together.

His gaze landed on her as he stepped into the blazing heat, surprised that she was already there and waiting for him. She was seated at the back table beneath the overhang, a bag placed in front of her. He blinked once, his eyes trailing over the snow white dress that she was adorning, which looked beautiful against her olive complexion. Her hair fell in nearly black ringlets down her back, her face plain and free of makeup. He grinned, making his way over to sit across from her, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Her floral perfume, light as it was, flowed in his direction, and just looking at her right then made him want to kiss her. Hell, the farthest he had gotten with her was a few light kisses against her cheek, or just simple hand-holding, or sometimes, he would drape his arm around her shoulders and pull her in tight, but he hadn't even fully kissed her yet, and glory, he really wanted to.

"Hey, Soda," she greeted, smiling gently at him.

"Hey, yourself," he replied, leaning down to peck her cheek. Once he was seated, she slid the bag to him, her cheeks tinting lightly. "You're too good to me, darlin'," he said, pulling out the lunch she had prepared for him. "Alright, what kinda sandwich are you surprising me with?" He was smiling at her, taking in the way her chin was resting on her folded hands, elbows spread apart and relaxed upon the wooden table top.

"Guess."

He chuckled. "PB and J?" When she shook her head, he continued. "Ham? Tuna? Bologna?" Tossing his hands up in mock surrender, a cheerful look on his face, he shook his head. "I give up."

But Mary was only smiling on. "Well, then, I guess you'll just have to find out when you open it."

He had to laugh, doing just that. This was their weekend ritual, and there was nothing that Soda looked forward to more. He got to spend two days a week with this girl, altogether an hour and a half, and she would always surprise him with lunch. They would sit and talk about this and that, and sometimes they would lose track of time, resulting in Anthony poking his head around and calling Soda back to work. Still, there was nothing more that Soda enjoyed doing, well, except for getting home to his brothers and friends, but this was his favorite time of the week. Of course, he and Mary had went out several times together—he had met her great aunt, Vera DuPres, who was her legal guardian since her parents were long gone, he learned that she'd gone to a private school, before her aunt decided to have her home schooled to learn proper etiquette, along with the art of being a lady, to prepare her for becoming the perfect and most suitable housewife. Because of that, Mary was somewhat socially awkward, and even though she always did whatever made her aunt happy, Soda knew that Mary herself was not.

Her Aunt Vera was a very imposing woman, tall and thin, with a long face and watchful eyes. Soda had done his best to act like a proper gentleman around the woman, but he knew that she didn't fully accept him as her niece's "beau", as that was what she referred to him as. Mary had lived a sheltered life, and Soda was determined to open her up and make her live.

He was still grinning as he tore the sandwich wrapping away. "Is this cordon bleu?" he asked, mouth watering at the smell wafting into his nostrils.

"I thought you might like something different," she answered, a nervous look taking over her features, her tone quieting a little.

But Soda was already beginning to munch away, savoring the flavor that coated his tongue. "This . . . is . . . great!" he exclaimed through bites, watching as she began chuckling away. "Oh, man . . ."

The two continued to chat away while sharing a Pepsi, Soda finishing up the lunch she'd made for him, almost looking disappointed when it was all gone. Hell, he thought, he might just have to introduce her to his style of cooking one day, though not any time too soon. Her food was perfect, but it was missing a little coloring for full admiration. But then again . . . the taste was incredible all on its own.

"I saw Ponyboy the other day," Mary said softly. "He was at the library."

Soda instantly perked up. "Oh, yeah? What'd you two talk about?"

She shrugged absently. "Nothing much, but"—She dug around her bag, pulling a book out and sliding it over to him—"he forgot this on the table when he left."

The golden-haired teen smiled, looking at the cover. "Thanks. I'll be sure to give it to him."

Mary's smile was small. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

* * *

Ponyboy was a little irritated. He'd gone back to the library to get his copy of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ , only to learn that the only two copies they carried had been checked out. Apparently, nothing that week was going right for him, and he found himself growing a little more aggravated as the days moved forward. The only thing keeping him going was his book, but even that held a damper on his spirits since he couldn't do anything until Dallas consented to the usage of his name. He still hadn't seen the older teen to get his letter from Johnny, and he could only hope that Dallas hadn't lost it or threw it out—glory, but he'd surely rip his hair out by then.

As he exited the library, the heat instantly hitting his arms, he saw a vaguely familiar person sitting on the bench across the street from where he stood. He squinted, one hand shielding his eyes as he stared for a good moment, coming to realize that the person was Randy Adderson. It wasn't so much that he looked changed in physique, but his mode of dress was . . . quite different. Gone was his Beatles hairstyle, gone were the nice clothes he'd once wore. In their places were overly long hair, held away from his face by a blue bandanna, sunglasses covering his eyes, concealing them completely, and he was dressed in a button-up colorful t-shirt, accompanied by baggy pants . . . and sandals.

Ponyboy almost did a double take, wondering if that was truly Randy sitting there looking so aimless, even if he stood out. With a sigh, the younger teen stuffed his hands inside his pockets and walked across the street to where the brown-haired boy was seated, nodding once to him in acknowledgment.

"Ponyboy," he said, sounding awfully relaxed. "I didn't see you."

His brow raised. "Yeah, well, I didn't quite recognize you."

Randy only smiled, though. "I don't believe in divides anymore, kid. I think . . . Bob's death was a real eye-opener for me, and I . . . understand a lot more, if that makes sense to you." At Ponyboy's look of sheer perplexity, he continued on. "Things are changing around here, I don't know if you've noticed or not, Ponyboy, but . . . they are."

"I guess so," he agreed, unsure if this was really the same Randy Adderson he'd gone to school with. It seemed odd that someone could change so drastically in such a short amount of time, for Randy, as far as he knew anyway, always looked the part of the West side jet-set. This was different, _he_ was different, and Ponyboy wasn't sure if it was exactly a good thing or not. "How've you been doing, though?"

"Better than I've ever been, kid," came the straight answer. "Listen, seeing things without a division has really changed my perspective. I used to believe there wasn't a way to change things, and you know something, Ponyboy? While things are still the same, they are changing, and people are starting to see that, too, how simple things could be . . . how easy it would be if there wasn't a divide, if there was more peace around."

The younger boy merely nodded. "Yeah, well, it was good seeing you, Randy." His eyes lingered on the former Soc's attire for only a second longer. "Take care of yourself."

"You, too, kid."

Boy howdy, Ponyboy thought as he went on walking toward the bus stop, Randy was right. Things were definitely changing, and he didn't know whether to be comfortable about it or not. With a shake of his head, he pursed his lips, remembering Johnny's words from his letter . . .

 _You still have a lot of time to make yourself what you want. There's still lots of good in the world._

* * *

". . . you'd think that little shit would learn by now," Dally was saying, shaking his head. "But Jones thinks he's a smartass, well, let me tell you somethin', he's got another thing comin'." There was a sharp bitterness seeping through his voice. "Thought there was some kinda rule about goin' after the chicks."

Steve was scowling, listening to Dallas yapping away from beside him. Apparently, Daxon Jones had one of his boys jump Angela Shepard. Steve wasn't quite familiar with her—he'd heard of her, seen her around, but he'd never directly come in contact with her, and what he'd heard from Evie, it was enough to keep him away. He didn't dig dramatic girls, and Angela sounded like she was a headache waiting to happen, a little brat. Dallas wasn't all that fond of her, but she was Tim's little sister, and Tim's gang and their makeshift gang got along alright, and they looked out for each other. If there was some kinda feud going on with the River Kings and Shepard's outfit, Steve had no doubt his group of buddies would come through for Tim and his boys.

Angela wasn't hurt too bad physically, but she'd been pretty spooked. According to what she'd relayed to her brother, Chris Marmo had come up from behind her and shoved her to the ground, forcibly pushing her face into the dirt, before giving her a warning about walking the streets alone. That had been enough to floor Tim, and Steve couldn't blame him. Hell, he didn't want to think about how he would feel if it had been Evie . . .

"What a scumbag," he muttered through his teeth, shaking his head. There was a silent law about not jumping girls, especially the family kind, or a girlfriend. Steve couldn't fathom it—he'd done some pretty messed up things, been in shitty situations, but he had never raised a hand to a girl, not even to spook them. Oh, sure, he had threatened Sylvia Evans a while back, but those were only words; he wouldn't have touched her. The thought alone disgusted him, and he wondered what in the hell was going through Marmo's mind for him to jump Angela—a kid. Their must have been some issue going on between Daxon Jones and Tim Shepard. Daxon wouldn't have had one of his boys go after the kid without a reason, stupid though it probably was. "What's his problem with Shepard anyway?"

Dallas's jaw clenched. "He called him out for his boys selling dope on his turf."

"Christ," came the surprised response. "I didn't know Daxon was into that shit. I expected more of that from Brumly's outfit."

A snort. "You'd think."

Steve sighed, pulling his car into Ella Mitchell's driveway. She and Evie were seated on the hood of Mrs. Mitchell's Impala, smoking cigarettes and splitting a bottle of Pepsi. Ella looked bummed, Evie fanning herself beside her while she stared down at a magazine. Both girls had perked though at the sight of Steve's car rolling to a stop a few feet from them, and next to Steve, Dallas glared.

"Thought you were headed to the Curtis's," he said, clearly annoyed.

Steve shrugged. "Yeah, well, you thought wrong."

Evie was already on her feet before he'd gotten out of the car. "'Bout time y'all arrived. We've been dyin' out here waitin' on you." Her hands fell to her hips as she made a dramatic pose. "What took you so long?"

"Picked a rat up on the way," Steve answered, and nodded toward Dallas, before turning back to his girlfriend with a drab expression. "Good to see you, too, Eve."

Despite the couple's sarcasm, they still leaned in to peck each other on the lips, and Ella had to smirk at the exchange—Evie and Steve were just . . . something else. Her eyes drifted toward Dallas, who was lighting a cigarette, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck with sweat, the curls around his ears a little damp. It was noticeable on him, unlike Steve, whose hair was greased up in swirls, his face glistening with sweat beads. There was also a patch of red skin around his neck where the collar of his shirt stopped, leaving the rest of that area exposed to the sun. Ella inwardly grimaced, her fingers running up her arms and feeling how hot they were. Glory, but she would probably be tinged red by that evening if she continued to sit outside any longer.

Dallas cocked an eyebrow, staring at the brown-haired girl as she eyed her pasty arms. "At the rate you're goin', sweets, I doubt you'd need any light to see in the dark."

Ella's head snapped up in his direction, a frown on her lips as she glanced at his smirk. "Oh, very funny, _hood_." And then she glared at him. "At least when I look in the mirror my reflection doesn't walk away, unlike yours."

"Fiery today, huh," he drawled, moving to stand in front of her as she stood up. "But I suppose that's what happens when you should be locked up in your coffin during the day."

The girl's face twisted, but before she could insult him again, Steve was stepping between them with a shake of his head. He looked the Impala over for a moment, before turning back to Ella with a firm expression as Evie hopped up on the hood of his Plymouth, smoothing the towel she and Ella had been sitting on beneath her so she didn't burn herself against the metal.

"So, what's wrong with her?" Steve inquired, nodding toward Mrs. Mitchell's car. He listened while Ella explained what was going on, a focused look on his face. After a few minutes, he popped the hood, before glancing back at Ella. "When's the last time she ran?"

"Last week," came the quiet answer.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "Start her up for me."

Dallas flicked his cigarette butt away, moving to stand beside Steve. The dark-haired greaser already had a feeling of what the problem was, judging from Ella's description of what had been going on. He had always been good with cars, knew them upside down and inside out—they were his specialty. Once Ella had the car running, his nose wrinkled at the strong smell of oil.

Beside him, Dallas whistled. "She leakin'?"

Steve sighed, squatting down to peek under the car, his eyes squinting at the small puddle. He raised an eyebrow as he glanced back at Dallas, telling him to signal Ella to cut the engine. Great, he thought with mild contempt . . . exactly what he needed that afternoon.

* * *

One of Ponyboy's least favorite things to do was cook dinner. It wasn't even that it was a hard job or anything, but he preferred it when Darry cooked. Unlike Soda's, Darry's cooking was a lot closer to what their mom's used to be like, even tasted the same. Ponyboy thought that he was okay, but he just wasn't a natural cook—he was like their dad that way. It was strange, he thought, that he used to think he wasn't like anyone in his family, but as time past, he was beginning to see some similarities between himself and his parents. The more he thought about it, he found that he had more in common with Darry than he originally assumed. He had always wanted to be more like Soda, well, save for the hyper energy—but nobody was like Soda, nobody—and he was actually glad that he wasn't, either.

He splashed some milk into the mashed potatoes, stirring them around and licking the spoon. He couldn't get the image of Randy Adderson out of his mind, and he wondered what happened to the boy he had spoken to all those months ago . . . the day of the rumble. Randy had always been a good guy, even if he had been a Soc at one point. Or maybe he hadn't ever truly been a Soc to begin with. Perhaps he had always been a follower, and now it was odd to see him expressing himself. Ponyboy wasn't sure, but he knew Randy had been right—things might have been the same, but change was on the horizon.

Oh, what a Summer it was turning out to be.

The sound of the front door slamming jolted the teen out of his thoughts, and he jerked around as Soda entered the kitchen, his shoes already kicked off, the sound of his stocking covered feet slapping across the floor and over to the refrigerator. He grabbed the carton of milk and swallowed a large gulp, one hand resting on the door as the coolness from inside flooded out. Ponyboy sighed, pushing the finished bowl of potatoes aside as he started moving the chickens out of the baking dish and onto the plate.

"That smells great, kiddo," Soda said, fingering some potatoes into his mouth.

Ponyboy made a face. "Did you at least wash your hands?"

The golden-haired teen grinned. "You'll find out later when you eat some yourself." He dodged his brother's playful whack, slinging an arm around him and pulling him into a headlock. "Say uncle," he laughed, rubbing his knuckles across his head.

"Never," Pony hollered, twisting the lower portion of his body to get away. "C'mon, Soda." But he was laughing, Soda beginning to tickle his sides, causing a humor filled roar from the younger teen. "Okay, okay," he all but cried. "Uncle!"

Soda's grip loosened, both of their laughter filling up the kitchen. "See? Was that so hard?"

"You goof." And then his nose wrinkled. "You smell like perspiration."

He shook his head, ignoring the comment and taking another bite of the mashed potatoes, before remembering the book in his back pocket. "Oh, before I forget, Ponyboy, I've got somethin' for ya," he said, and tossed him the book Mary had given to him earlier that day.

The younger boy's eyes went wide as he stared down at the cover, surprise taking over his features as he wondered how Soda had gotten a copy of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. He couldn't have gone to the library—both of their editions had been checked out when he'd gone earlier, so how had he gotten one, and how did he know he'd been reading it?

At his confused look, Soda spoke. "Mary gave it to me today at work, said you left it in the library the other day and thought you might want to finish it."

Ponyboy felt guilt creeping up his spine, his lips turning into a frown. "Did she say anything else?"

Soda gave him an odd look. "No. But anyway, I'm glad y'all are getting along . . ."

He trailed on, leaving Ponyboy feeling worse than he had a few seconds ago. He'd been so rude to his brother's girlfriend, even telling her that he wouldn't want her to read his book. Oh, glory, but he had certainly made a horrible impression as the younger brother of her boyfriend—blast it, he thought, a sigh escaping his lips, he would have to thank her, even if he'd been awfully lousy to her.

* * *

Ella was relieved to learn that the problem with the Impala wasn't too serious. Steve had explained that the oil leaking out was coming from her valve cover gaskets. He would have to go to the DX to get the parts and replace them, which would occur tomorrow afternoon and would take about three hours. She would be able to drive her car to work that evening, which she was happy about—no more would she have to suffer walking in the blazing heat every day, thank goodness.

Unfortunately, she had to suffer _this_ particular evening getting a ride from Dallas in Steve's car, as he and Evie had left in hers. The ride was silent between them, and usually, Ella would have no qualms with that, however, it felt almost awkward, especially since the two of them had jacked a car the other day. The thought of that still made Ella feel strange, as if she were unsure if she still felt excited or guilty for doing it in the first place. Her thumbs began twiddling in her lap, a clear sign that she was getting nervous, overthinking, or second-guessing herself.

Dallas glanced at her. "What's your problem, girl?"

"The other night," she answered, her gut twisting up. "I—" Her words seemed to catch in her throat, and she suddenly felt stupid. "I was just thinking about it."

He smirked. "I'll bet."

Her lips pursed. "No, Dallas, it wasn't . . . it wasn't funny." She felt stupid suddenly, and she wished she hadn't mentioned it at all. "Never mind, just forget it."

"Why the hell are you even thinkin' about it?" he asked, sounding bewildered. And then it hit him. Ella felt guilty for going along with him, for getting into the car, or she felt guilty for . . . enjoying it. The idea of that actually amused him, that he had made this broad guilty for taking pleasure in something illegal. Oh, what a thought that was. He began wondering what else he could talk her into, a grim smile widening his lips ever so slightly. At her facial expression, he continued speaking. "Oh, so what? You guilty now?"

Ella's brows pressed together, nostrils flaring. "So what? Maybe I am." Or maybe she wasn't. "But that isn't the point. The point is that we . . . we—" She tossed her hands up into the air, frustration written across her features.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the store, and he reached out to grab her arm, jerking her around to face him before she could run out. Her eyes were broad with shock, her pupils large, but in them he could see the same expression he'd picked up a few months back when they were at her house studying for the midterms—she was still into him, still wanted him. It was plainly obvious, and Dallas knew that she wasn't guilty for actually going along with him after all, no, she was only guilty because she had enjoyed doing so—she liked it, and she liked him.

He gave her arm another tug to pull her in, leaning his face closer to her, the space between them only inches, if that. His face was twisted into a wry grin, his icy gaze boring into her own, daring and bold, and he could see how nervous she was getting. Still, though, her tongue peeked through her lips as it swept across them quickly, her eyes flickering to his own mouth and back to his eyes. She swallowed, her body beginning to freeze up in his grasp.

"Admit it, sweets, you enjoyed it," he challenged, voice low. His face pressed closer to hers, and he intentionally made sure to let their noses brush. "Admit it," he repeated, the sound of her breathing intensifying. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat coming off of her flushed skin, and he could see the blue coloring of her eyes seeming to darken just a little.

But then she turned her head away rapidly, ripping her arm out of his clutch, and all but stumbling out of the car, the look on her face one of sheer humiliation, eyes still wide and full of horror, as if she was suddenly afraid of him. What he didn't know was that Ella really was scared, though not of him, but of how he'd made her feel. Her entire body was practically tingling, chills moving up and down her spine as goosebumps rose on her arms and legs. She could only give him one more look before turning away completely and heading inside the store, her eyes brimmed with tears.

 _It's a smile, it's a kiss_

 _It's a sip of wine, it's summertime_

 _Sweet summertime_

* * *

 **Oh, boy. Dally really enjoys toying with Ella, doesn't he? ;)  
**

 **As always, feedback is always appreciated! Thank you for reading! :3**


	6. Stand My Ground

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers own "I Won't Back Down."**

* * *

 _You can stand me up at the gates of hell_

 _But I won't back down_

 **July 12, 1966**

Ella's breathing was heavy, her eyes wide, and her lips parted. This was the second time she'd had a dream like this, a provocative one at that. Ever since that afternoon when Dallas had driven her to the store, all she could think about were his captivating eyes, the smell of tobacco and weed that emitted off of him, the small indent of his upper lip, and by golly, the way he had looked at her—really _looked_ at her, like she had never been looked at before. Then again, Ella had only ever dated one boy, one who had merely used her for his own cruel intentions. Craig Bryant hadn't even liked her, only used her in a scheme at getting back at Dallas Winston and Ponyboy Curtis, but not even he, who had been good to her in the beginning of their relationship, had ever looked at her the way that Dallas had.

The eighteen-year-old wasn't sure why, but whenever she thought about the expression on Dallas's face, her entire body would tingle, her thighs would squeeze, and her bottom lip seemed to get caught between her teeth. It made her feel . . . different, like she was really a woman, like she was almost desirable, like she had never felt before. She had liked Craig so much nearly a year ago, so she wondered why he hadn't made her feel like this.

With a deep sigh, Ella moved out of bed, wishing that she didn't have to go to work that morning. She was glad, though, that Steve had fixed her car so she no longer had to walk in the heat, but she felt guilty that he told her not to worry about paying him. Part of her felt that Evie had something to do with that, but Ella had decided—even though Steve had insisted that she not worry about it—to make him something, even if it was a measly batch of cookies. She figured he could share it with his friends or something if he didn't want to take anything from her, but the thought was still there, and she was very grateful for his help—his and Evie's.

As she went through her morning routine, her dream plaguing her thoughts, Ella wondered when she would see Dallas next, not looking forward to it, and she wondered if he ever thought about her, or even considered her in any way other than just his former tutor. She was sure that they were on a friendly basis with one another, but she thought of him in a different way, and the other evening in the car with him being _that_ close to her had only intensified her feelings. Honestly, it confused her, too, as she couldn't fathom what it was about the hard-headed hoodlum that drew her in. He wasn't a very nice person—he was cold, bitter, mean . . . the list was never-ending, but he was also charismatic, possessed certain abilities of being nice, could be understanding, and he was protective. Ella had also come to learn that Dallas was almost loyal to a fault, but it took him a lot of time to befriend most people, though once his friendship was gained, he became a very devoted companion.

Before she left, Ella checked in on her mother, who was still sound asleep in her bedroom. The girl's face fell a little as she peered in at her, a sensation of sheer worry still lurking in the back of her mind as she recalled Dr. Andrews's words. He'd prescribed Ella's mother some medication for the pain, and she wasn't allowed to work or do anything strenuous, but Ella was certain that her mother was too worn out and in too much pain to even want to move out of bed on most days.

With a sinking feeling in her gut and a facade of courage on her face, Ella stepped out into the rain and humidity, climbing into the car and heading to the laundromat.

* * *

Two-Bit's expression was somewhat cocky, but he simply raised an eyebrow at the younger teen in front of him as he dropped his cards onto the coffee table. He could see the annoyed look on his face, figured he had him real good, and that he would be getting a case of beer out of this, but when Ponyboy had the audacity to look straight at him, one side of his lips curving up ever so slightly, Two-Bit leaned forward, immediately losing his previous confidence.

Ponyboy grinned, flipping his cards around. "Royal flush."

The rusty-haired teen's face dropped instantaneously. "How in the hell?" He blinked, brows pulling together as he studied the kid's cards—he couldn't believe it. "You gotta be pullin' my chain or somethin', kid. You was never real good at poker."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. Two-Bit was right, though, he never had been exceptionally good at cards, but those five days he'd spent in the church with Johnny had surely taught him something. It was no secret that Johnny Cade had been one helluva poker player, and if anything Ponyboy had learned from his best friend during those awful days in Windrixville, it was a few poker tips. Surprisingly, he hadn't bothered to play a game of cards since September, so when Two-Bit had prompted him to do so, he could only cave in and go with it. Besides, if he won, Two-Bit had to pay for his next movie, and if he won, he had to pay for a case of beer for him. Well, he thought with a cheerful smirk, it looked like he was going to the movies with a free pass after all.

A grin stretched across his face. "Well, I'm a fast learner."

"I'll bet," Two-Bit replied, and took a sip of his beer. "I'd call a rematch, but I doubt you would."

"Nope," he agreed, hopping up onto the couch and leaning back. His eyes narrowly landed on the book Mary had gotten for him, the one he had purposely left behind in the library. He was conflicted about reading it, or merely returning it—only because she had gotten it for him—but he supposed that was really a childish thought. In all honesty, he actually appreciated the gesture, knowing fully well that Mary didn't have to check it out for him. He couldn't fathom it, though, remembering how harshly he had treated her, and it didn't make him feel too hot. His ears burned, but he turned back toward Two-Bit, who was aimlessly shuffling the cards. "What do you think of Mary?"

Caught off guard with the question, Two-Bit gave him a strange look. "What do you mean, kid?"

Ponyboy shrugged. "Nothin', really. I was just curious about what your thoughts were of Soda's girl. I don't really know what to make of her yet."

"No?" he said, and pursed his lips. "Well, I don't know myself, either. She's awfully quiet, ya know, don't hardly say nothin' to me." He placed the deck back onto the table and stretched his arms up in the air with a wide yawn. "Seems like a nice gal, though, probably a little too nice for our kind, but your brother surely seems happy, don't he?"

And that was all the confirmation he needed—everyone else seemed to think that Mary DeVaney was a nice person, or that Soda was happy, so that meant she must be good for him. Ponyboy wasn't sure, but he both felt bad for treating the girl poorly, and weirdly okay that he had. Perhaps it was just him being worried that Mary was going to end up breaking Soda's heart, but every time he saw her and looked at her nervous face, he couldn't believe that she would. Oh, blast it, he thought miserably—but that wasn't the only reason, and he knew it. There was something about her that made him nervous, and it was something regarding the look in her eyes—that nervous, skeptical expression that unnerved him.

With a sigh, he continued speaking. "I guess, but . . . I was awfully rude to her a few days ago." At the older teen's perplexed look, he continued on flatly. "I saw her in the library and said some pretty hurtful things to her." His face turned a shade. "I didn't mean to, and I suppose I feel guilty about it, but I—"

"Don't want to like her?"

A nod. "I guess I don't." And though it was a lousy thing to admit, he felt better doing so. "It's not that I think she's a bad person, or that she's all wrong for Soda, but there's something about her that makes me uncomfortable, and hell, I can't tell Soda that, or Darry."

Two-Bit looked thoughtful. "Well, Ponykid, this might sound awfully dumb, but maybe you ain't ready to accept anyone else because you don't wanna get attached, dig? And, hell, it's not a bad thing, unless you's like Dallas, then it would be." He finished off the last of his beer in one gulp, getting up to toss the empty bottle in the garbage can. "But you oughtta consider on apologizing to her, especially if it's eatin' ya up that bad."

"I guess you're right," came the dull response. "She was nice enough to give the book I was reading to Soda when I left it at the library." His chin bowed. "I _was_ awfully rude to her."

"Don't sweat it," the older boy stated. "Look'it here—if she's not doin' anything wrong, then just be happy for your brother. It's the most any of us can do, especially now."

Ponyboy nodded. "Yeah. Gee, thanks, Two-Bit."

"Sure." His brow quirked. "By the way, how's your book comin' along? You speak to that publisher guy yet? What's the deal?"

He could have slapped himself in the head. "I gotta talk to Dally first. I ain't done that yet."

"Well, in that case," Two-Bit drawled, "you're shit out of luck, 'cause I have no idea where that greasy hood is."

The red-headed teen sighed in defeat, figuring that the next time he ran into Dallas Winston, he would have to tell him about his book and ask for his consent. Two-Bit was right, he noted, he was shit out of luck—Dally could have been anywhere . . .

* * *

"You know you ain't gonna make any dough without me."

Buck looked pretty annoyed. "You ain't racin'."

The blond was seething, but he followed the older cowboy as he worked behind the bar. "You still all hacked off 'cause I was right the other week, huh? You knew that horse wasn't in any condition to be runnin' like that, so you fucked yourself with that race." His hands slammed down on the table. "So what, huh? You ain't in it for the cash anymore, that it?"

Buck let out a long sigh, a sign that he was about to cave. He knew that Dallas was right—he needed the extra cash, and he needed it bad. He had already blown the loot from the last race, which hadn't even been that much of a winning. The guy who had taken Winston's place wasn't half as good, and he certainly couldn't make a horse take to him like Dallas could. For a right, nasty son-of-a-bitch, Dallas had a way with horses that Buck couldn't fathom. He could tame the wildest of them, could train the ponies, could nurse a senior horse to good health . . . the kid practically spoke horse, and he was damn good at it—a trait Buck Merril hadn't witnessed in any other person.

"Well . . ."

The teen watched him carefully, his eyes narrowing. "Come on, Merril. We both know you could use some cash." There was a sarcastic sound in his voice, although the thought was tempting. "Sign me up with ya. Friday night, you an' me." He leaned forward so half his body was across the counter, elbow pressing into the wood. "I'll race Shiloh."

Buck's brows shot up. "You wanna race that washed out old thing?"

"She's fast."

"Ain't fast enough."

Dally glowered, not backing down. "Just put me the fuck back in." He was tired of stringing this along, of trying to play nice. He wanted to be in that race Friday night, and he got what he wanted. "I win, we split the dough fifty fifty, savvy?"

The older man looked vexed, his arms crossing over his chest. "This is yer last chance, Winston. You fuck this up, I'll make sure yer ass don't ever work for the Slash J again."

He leaned back, a smirk on his lips. "Shiloh it is then."

It was more than obvious that Buck was pissed, blue in the face probably, but Dallas didn't care. He'd missed racing, and like Buck, he needed some money. He was mighty sick of living with his deadbeat daddy, and he was itching to get the hell out of his house. Well, at least he had some clean sheets, so he couldn't complain there, but that wasn't the point. He and his old man had never gotten along well, and they were both tired of dealing with each other nearly every day. Dallas had taken to sleeping at the Shepard's place a few times, once at the Curtis's, and once or twice with Linda Holland, and he was just getting plain sick of everyone.

Was it so much to ask for to sleep in a bed with peace and quiet for a whole night through? Apparently, it was a lot to ask for in Dallas's case. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful sleep that wasn't disturbed in the slightest. In fact, Dallas couldn't ever remember sleeping an entire night through—not even drunk off his ass.

When Buck refused to respond, he knew he had his answer. His smile was grim but full as he exited the bar that afternoon—he always got what he wanted.

* * *

Ella was folding up some towels, trying to ignore a few of her stray hairs that were sticking to her moistened neck. At this point, the girl was seriously considering on cutting her hair off so that she didn't have to worry about it anymore—hell, she would just keep it wrapped up in a bun from that point forward. It didn't matter anyway, as she wasn't trying to impress anyone. Reaching for another towel, Ella folded it to perfection—after spending the last few hours ironing the clothes, she was glad to be folding them. Her fingers were beginning to feel rough, and truthfully, she hated it—she would have to rub extra lotion on them later.

The bell chimed, alerting the girl of a customer's arrival. She glanced up just in time to see a girl with black ringlets backing herself inside with a hamper of laundry piled high. Her arms were enveloping the basket, which was obviously too heavy for her to carry. Still, though, she managed, muttering out a string of profanities that caused Ella to grimace slightly. Dropping the last of her load, she made her way to the front of the store to see if the young woman needed help with anything. But as Ella approached her, it was clearly evident that she was more frustrated than anything, shaking her head and mumbling quietly to herself as she counted out some change.

"Do you need any help?" Ella asked as politely as she could. Half of her was nervous about speaking to this girl, mostly because she seemed to be in a bad mood, and somewhat because she was just shy to begin with. But then, the girl's eyes snapped in her direction, and Ella nearly fainted. "Angela," she said, sounding as surprised as she looked. "I didn't . . . recognize you."

The younger teen rolled her eyes. "Is it the bruises on my face, or is your memory that fucked?"

"I'm sorry," Ella replied, looking the girl over. There were a few scattered bruises on her face, as well as two scratches that seemed to be covered with makeup. Ella remembered Steve relaying to Evie about some gang war going on downtown between Shepard's outfit and the River Kings. Ella wasn't exactly familiar with that stuff, usually opting for keeping to herself—not one to get thrust in the social class divide, or any of that nonsense. But she had heard about Angela getting jumped from both Dallas and Steve—something about getting back at Tim. "I just . . ." Her lips pursed. "Did you need any help?"

Angela was plainly blunt. "No."

As Ella turned away, she remembered the last time she had seen Angela Shepard. It had been around October of last year . . . the homecoming dance, that was it. She remembered Evie's dislike of her, and how some of the other girls didn't seem to like her all that much, either, well, except for Sylvia Evans, but that was a different story. A lot of people didn't like Angela, and it was clear why. Angela was a very rough girl, loud and obnoxious. She was in trouble a lot, and overall, not a very nice person. But Ella usually wasn't one to judge others too harshly, and she didn't exactly have a problem with the rebellious younger teen.

While those thoughts occupied her mind, there was a loud crash from behind her, followed by the sound of change scattering across the floor, and Angela's voice, which was a mixture of a loud groan and a piercing shriek. Ella jerked around to see the other girl with her head in her hands, her change bag on the floor upside down at her feet, and all of her change dispersed around her. Ella frowned, a sympathetic expression on her face as she made her way back to where Angela was still standing, crouching down to pick up the bag and scoop her coins into it.

It took Angela a second to react, but when she did, her blue eyes went wide, her countenance turning to shock as she watched Ella picking up her things. "I'm surprised you ain't laughin'," she said, moving to her knees to gather up her money. "Hell, most people would."

Ella frowned. "I'm not most people, Angela. Why would I laugh?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Same as I would if it was someone else." Another minute or so past as the girls cleaned up the mess, and once they were standing, Angela began sorting her basket of laundry, a firm look on her angular face. "Our washer broke this mornin', and it ain't like anyone else bothers to do the laundry anyway. Of course, they ain't hardly ever home, but if they are, my Mama's always bitchin' about it." She shook her head. "You'd think she'd move her ass and do somethin', but all she cares about is my step-daddy's dough."

The brown-haired girl was listening, surprised to hear Angela Shepard talk like this. "I'm sorry," she replied. "That's awful."

And then little Angela cracked a smile, a bitter one, but close enough to being genuine. "Oh, please, that ain't nothin'." Her eyes expressed blunt mischief. "Waitin' for my neighbor to take her afternoon nap so I could take her car is awful." At Ella's baffled look, she rolled her eyes. "She's an old lady. It ain't like it matters anyway. 'Sides, I ain't walkin' in this blasted heat." As she dumped her clothes into the washer, she continued on. "It ain't safe to be walkin' the streets anyway."

Ella nodded. "Yeah, I heard about . . . what happened to you."

"Ain't nothin'," Angela replied. "Nothing I can't handle." Her nose wrinkled. "Just watch yourself."

The older teen had to smile a little. Angela might have been rough around the edges, but Ella had to admire how brave she was, even if it came out rather obnoxiously. Angela was just the type of girl who stood her ground and didn't let anyone push her around. She remembered how she'd felt when Craig Bryant attacked her back in January, how awful she'd felt, and she found that she could admire Angela Shepard—she wasn't one to back down.

The bell chimed, and Ella turned her head to see Evie strolling inside, fanning herself with one hand, her short shorts almost looking like a second skin against her figure. Ella had to hand it to her, though, for Evie could pull the look off like one of those pin-up models you'd see in magazines. Ella would never look like that, could never pull the look off, but Evie . . . Evie could, and she flaunted it like it was nobody's business. In comparison to Ella's casual beige shorts and sleeveless white blouse, Evie looked like a million bucks. Hell, even Angela, who was adorning a pair of short denim shorts that conformed to her smaller and more androgynous figure, along with an orange halter top, looked like she belonged in a fashion magazine.

Evie's voice broke the silence as she made her way down the aisle. "Hey, El," she called, and then her gaze landed on Angela. "Angela," she added, tone seeming to drop an octave.

Ella smiled. "Hey, Evie."

There was a short silence as Angela and Evie stared each other down, until Evie continued on. "Isn't it your break, Ella?"

And Ella's eyes landed on the clock. "Yeah. Just let me tell Ginger . . ."

* * *

Steve eyed the clock above the door to the garage, reaching his arms over his head as he stretched. His shift was nearly over, and truthfully, he couldn't be happier. The DX got pretty hot in the Summer, and the dark-haired greaser was sweating like a pig. Beside him, working on a '56 Pontiac Star Chief, Soda didn't look any better. His shirt was practically drenched through with perspiration, and he'd told Steve earlier that his feet were burning inside his shoes. Then again, it was no secret that Sodapop Curtis's feet overheated—even in the Winter. And Lord just help him if Darry didn't remind him to sprinkle some deodorizer in his shoes every evening.

The older boy rubbed the back of his neck, his nose crinkling as a bead of sweat drizzled down the side of his bridge, and he wished that the last several minutes would finish out already. He watched Soda for a few, before he stood up straight, dropping the Pontiac's hood with a _thud_.

"It's boiling in here," Soda said, cleaning his hands and using his arm to remove the moisture off of his forehead. "Hell, but I could just about suffocate to death."

Steve nodded, craning his neck toward the opened door. "Not even that breeze is helpin'."

"Well, ain't it time to head out anyway?"

The two teens made their way inside to clock out, nodding once to Benny to let him know that they were leaving. Steve enjoyed these days, mostly because he and Soda were on the same shift—Benny had kept his word several months ago about letting Steve go on full-time after he'd graduated, as well as letting him and Soda work together, so long as they did just that and didn't goof off too much. But Benny liked the both of them, enjoyed their company, and he'd heard from Stew at Giberson's Auto that Soda was one helluva employee.

"So, you got any plans with Mary?" Steve decided to ask as they trudged along back to Soda's house. "I was thinkin' maybe we could double-date this weekend."

Soda's brows shot up. "To the rodeo?"

"Sure, ain't Mary ever been to one?" he asked, raising an inquisitive brow. After officially meeting Soda's girl, Steve was no longer that skeptical of her. Besides, Evie seemed to like her well enough, even if the other girl was a little shy. "I know Evie's crazy about them races." A smile crossed his lips. "She always bets on Dally."

Soda snorted. "She hates Dally."

"Not as a jockey," came the bland response, and Steve chuckled. "But anyway, buddy, you oughtta ask Mary to come along with us."

The younger teen thought it over a minute, unsure of how his girl would do in a crowd like that. He hadn't exactly told Steve that Mary was . . . rather reserved, because he really didn't want to hear his friend's remarks. Oh, he'd heard a lot before, even the light jabs he'd taken at Sandy, but for some reason, one he couldn't fathom, he felt almost protective of Mary, and he wasn't sure why. He figured Steve might think he was just getting too attached, afraid that Mary would ditch him like Sandy had, but that wasn't it. No, it was something more, something that Soda couldn't piece together, as if most things he did with Mary required him to consider her and her feelings before his and everyone else's.

Unfortunately, he never had a chance to respond, because a car pulled up alongside the curb, and Paul Hopkins and three of his buddies got out, less than friendly expressions of their faces. Paul was eyeing Steve with a look that was more than unpleasant, his body leaning forward into a fighter's stance, his gaze bitter and hard. Paul Hopkins was an average downtown hood, not belonging to any gang, but playing runner for a few different ones here and there to make some quick cash. He wasn't all that bright, and his vocabulary was only a little better than that of the Brumly Boys.

He tossed his can of beer behind him. "I want my hubs back, Randle."

"I don't have them," Steve replied, his voice level and sharp. "Thought we settled this last week when I beat you in the drags."

Paul's face was turning an unhealthy shade of red. "I don't give two shits about any drag race, Randle. Now, are you gon' give me my hubs back or not?"

"I didn't take them."

The older boy was looking more impatient by the second. "I oughtta school you a lesson, you son-of-a-bitch," he bit out, and unexpectedly leaped forward, his other buddy following suit while the other two went after Soda.

The six of them were panting, throwing punches left and right, as they fought each other like animals, the sun beating down on them like a blazing torch. It was only when one of the guys slugged Soda good and hard across the face, sending him to the ground, his head whacking the pavement roughly, that Steve panicked a bit. It took a second, but his vision clouded with red, his focus hazing over as he snarled at Hopkins, coming at the taller boy full force, his hits powered by the anger that was fueling his veins. So immersed in fighting, Steve didn't see Dallas Winston and Tim Shepard round the corner up ahead, running up to join the brawl. One of Hopkins's buddies was crawling toward the car, Tim chasing the other in the same direction while Steve forcefully threw his opponent down. The fourth was already at the car, desperately trying to get inside.

Steve jerked around to find Dallas hovered over Soda's slender frame, his lips pressed into a thin line as his squinted eyes studied the cut on his head, his hand held over his face.

"How many fingers, kid?"

Soda made a sound like a grunt. ". . . three."

Steve visibly relaxed, sneering as Hopkins peeled out and took off down the road, threatening that he'd be back for his hubcaps. Tim had come sauntering up beside the trio with a fixed expression, his greased back curly hair seeming to glisten in the overbearing brightness. He did a once over of Soda, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.

Dallas was still speaking, pulling the younger teen up a little to inspect the back of his head, and only when he was somewhat convinced that Soda was okay, going on that he didn't want to bring Darry's kid brother back to him and deal with his inquiries, did he pull the boy to his feet. His eyes found Steve's after a second, and he raised an ashy brow in question.

"Guess Paul wants his hubcaps back," Steve remarked, casually lighting his own cancer stick, his gaze as bitter as ever. "Oh, well."

Dallas shook his head. "Fucking idiot." He'd had a feeling that Paul Hopkins was going to come around before, not one to settle something over a drag race, and he had another inkling that the dumbass wasn't quite done yet, either. He nodded toward Steve. "Just watch yourself."

 _In a world that keeps on pushin' me around_

 _But I'll stand my ground_

 _And I won't back down_

* * *

 **And there's chapter six! Thank you for reading!  
**

 **Happy Halloween! :3**


	7. In the Summer, In the City

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lovin' Spoonful owns "Summer in the City."**

* * *

 _But at night it's a different world_

 _Go out and find a girl_

 _Come-on come-on and dance all night_

 _Despite the heat it'll be alright_

 **July 16, 1966**

Ponyboy wasn't quite sure how to approach Dallas with his book. The older teen wasn't much of a reader, and Pony figured that if he simply gave Dally a book, the blond would look at him like he was crazy before whacking him upside the head. He had long and painful reminders of why he didn't want to start, or get mouthy, with Dally Winston, and knowing the hood as long as he did, he knew that tossing a book at him would make him assume that he was getting smart, but that was just Dallas.

With a sigh, the red-headed teen continued to scramble his eggs, wishing that Darry would have made him some before he'd left that morning. Then again, Soda had to leave awfully early on the weekends to get to Giberson's on time, and since he was the farthest away, he would drop Darry off at the warehouse Saturday mornings. An audible groan from the living room snapped the fourteen-year-old out of his thoughts, and he realized that Dallas was awake. He had been taking to sleeping at their place more frequently than he ever had, and Ponyboy—like his brothers—assumed it was because he didn't want to stay at his father's place any longer than necessary.

"Mornin', Dal," he greeted as the sound of bare feet slapped along the tiled floor behind him. He didn't bother to look at him, though, instead reaching for a plate to scoop some of the eggs onto. "Want some breakfast?"

"Sure," came the grumbled answer, and Ponyboy grimaced—Dallas had never been a morning person. Ironically, he was awake quite early on most days, though not coming around or speaking a whole lot until later on.

Outside on the back deck, Dallas sucked on a cigarette, a tired look in his eyes. He and his old man had gotten into it again last night, so he had left the house and walked across town to the Curtis's. He wasn't sure what time he'd arrived, but he was pretty sure it was around one or so. The teen felt a surge of anger rush through his veins—he was racing that night and he felt like shit. Great, he thought bitterly, this is exactly what he needed. If he fucked up again, Buck would make sure he was out of the Slash J. The thing was, the older cowboy knew Dallas was good, but it wasn't as if he wasn't replaceable; that's the way it worked, though. Jockeying came naturally to him, and he raced good and honestly, doing his best to win. There was just something about it the teen enjoyed, and once he was out there on the track, all else was forgotten. It was just him, his horse, and the innate feeling of freedom. Nothing stood in his way then, nothing could touch him—only then was he truly unstoppable.

Ponyboy poked his head outside. "Breakfast is ready."

Stubbing the cigarette, the blond headed back inside, the smell of bacon and eggs flooding his nostrils as he stepped back into the kitchen. Ponyboy handed him a plate and a glass of chocolate milk, and the two of them sat down at the kitchen table across from one another, the house seeming to become awkwardly silent around them. Then again, Pony had always been an awfully quiet kid, but too much silence made Dallas antsy, made him think, and he didn't like getting too wrapped up in his own thoughts—it made him anxious and uneasy.

"Ain't your birthday comin' up soon?" he decided to ask, trying to stir up a conversation.

The younger boy's eyes expressed surprise. "Yeah," he answered, poking around at his eggs. "It's next Friday." A smile formed on his lips. "Me, Darry, and Soda might go on a fishing trip or something, but I don't know yet."

Dally nodded, gulping down his glass of chocolate milk. "Tuff."

A shrug. "I guess so." There was another silence before he continued. "What horse are you gonna race tonight?"

"Shiloh."

Ponyboy looked thoughtful. "Thoroughbred?" He couldn't quite remember, but when they were a lot younger, Pony and Johnny used to keep tabs on all the horses Dally raced. He and Soda used to clean and muck stalls on the weekends, but once Mr. and Mrs. Curtis found out what was really going on behind the scenes, they made Soda quit. Mostly, he had gone because he wanted to see Mickey Mouse, his old horse, but once he got sold, Soda stopped tagging along as much. And when he tore a ligament in the rodeo, Mr. Curtis made him quit participating completely. Good thing, too, because Mrs. Curtis didn't like any of her sons around there unless she or Mr. Curtis were around, and neither one of them were exactly fans of the Slash J. Ponyboy remembered his mother having a good and long talk with Dally about that. "Whatever happened to Luna?"

"Shiloh's a Quarter Horse," Dallas replied, shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth. "Buck don't want me racin' Luna for whatever reason."

"But you used to."

Dallas gave him a fixed look. "Yeah, _used to_ , kid. 'Sides, it's either Shiloh or Lady, 'cause I told Buck before that Marigold ain't ready for racin'."

Ponyboy quickly gobbled up the rest of his food, before taking his empty plate and fork over to the sink to be washed. He cleaned them quietly for a minute or so, deciding that if he was going to mention anything about his book to Dallas, it ought to be right then. Still, he didn't want to see the older teen's reaction when he asked, didn't want to imagine the feral look he would give him. However, he did expect Dallas to possibly beat his head in, or something, but he wanted to get it over with. Usually, Ponyboy didn't get nervous over a silly question, but this was Dallas, and no matter what had occurred in the last year, or how much he might have changed, Dallas still scared him—he was dangerous.

"So, I've been meaning to ask you something," he started out, using the spatula to scrap some of the grease out of the frying pan. At the older teen's silence, Ponyboy felt his heart leap. "How would you feel if someone wrote a book and wanted to use your name for one of the characters?"

Behind him, Dallas made a face. "Sounds interesting."

"But what if the book was based on true events?

It was then that the older teen became suspicious. He always knew that Ponyboy was nervous around him—hell, everyone knew that—but there was something about the tone of his voice, the way he had asked him so bluntly. His posture wasn't relaxed, either, and as Dallas eyed him, he began piecing the situation together. He remembered Ella and Ponyboy sneaking away together a few times during the school year, as well as all of their weird secrets, and he thought about Ella and the way she had been so adamant on keeping them. Perhaps, Ponyboy was writing a book about his family or some shit, or maybe it was about the gang. Either way, Dallas wasn't sure, but he didn't give a damn if Ponyboy wanted to use his name in some book or not.

Unable to stand the silence, Ponyboy turned around slowly, his hands still dripping with soapy water, his brows knitted together.

Dallas shrugged. "Depends, I guess." An impish grin crossed his lips. "If it's about my record or—"

Ponyboy cut him off, shaking his head. "No, it ain't that, Dal." He should've expected that one—Dally had always been proud of his rap sheet. "It's—" He paused, unsure of how to tell the older teen that he had written about the events that had changed their lives nearly a year ago. Maybe he was afraid of how Dallas would react—after all . . . the ending was so different than what had really happened, and Pony didn't know if Dally ought to read the book or not. But he rationalized, coming to terms with the fact that he _should_ read it, because he needed to understand, and he needed to reach some form of acceptance of what had happened with Johnny Cade. "I ain't sure how to tell you," he finished.

The blond gave him a critical look. "Look, kid, I got places to be, so just spit it out, huh."

Ponyboy licked his lips. "Give me a second." And with that, he dashed to his and Soda's shared room and got his book. Well, this was the only choice he had at the moment, and it would save him from audibly explaining everything to Dallas. Besides, even if Dally decided to burn the book out of sheer anger, Ponyboy could always get a new copy from Mr. Franklin. Giving the cover one final look, he walked back into the kitchen and handed it off to Dallas. "Here," he said gently. "I know this is gonna sound weird, but you need to read it."

Dallas looked perplexed, to say the least, but he didn't comment on it, simply flipping through it and reading the back cover, his face stony and blank. Ponyboy wasn't sure what to think, or what to say, especially because Dallas was a walking time bomb, and the last thing he wanted was to start a fight with him. Well, at least he officially knew about the book . . .

"Yeah, sure," came the dull response, and Pony visibly relaxed. "So this is what you and Ella were doin' all those weeks back? You wrote a book."

The red-headed teen nodded. "Yeah, it was supposed to be a surprise for everyone, and well, I figured it was about time you saw it, too."

Dally was silent, a solemn expression blanketing his face, and Ponyboy's eyes lowered to the ground as he asked his last question.

"Do you still have Johnny's letter?"

* * *

Ella wasn't sure how she felt about going to the rodeo that night, but Evie had begged her Tuesday afternoon during her break to come along—well, after she had ridden her ass about associating with the likes of Angela Shepard. Ella had only sighed, her eyes nearly getting lost in the back of her head from rolling them so many times. Of course, she knew that Evie was merely looking out for her, and she understood her friend's concerns, but she didn't think Angela was all that bad. Loud and obnoxious? Yes. Dangerous and villainous? Not quite.

Still, Ella didn't know if she ought to go to the rodeo. She knew that Evie was trying to string her along because Dallas would be racing—Evie had told her that Thursday over the phone, and Ella's heart nearly leaped straight through her chest. She hadn't exactly seen Dallas since . . . well, since that incident in Steve's car a week ago, and the thought of it still ate at her. She hadn't bothered to tell Evie, or anyone for that matter, about it, and she certainly didn't intend to. Dallas always enjoyed trying to get under her skin, or find ways to get her riled up, but this time, she was going to forget about it, or at least try to. Unfortunately, for her, it was proving to be more difficult than it sounded.

"El," her mother called as the girl entered the kitchen. "What time will you be home?"

"Two," she answered. She internally grimaced as she remembered trying to tell Evie that she probably wouldn't be able to go with her to the rodeo because of work, only coming to realize that Evie had remembered her saying that she was only working the late morning shift. "Did you need anything from the store?"

Frances shook her head. "No. Are you going out with your friends tonight?"

Ella wanted to crawl into a little ball and die. It felt weird to have her mother asking her if she would be going out, or doing anything at all. The girl wasn't used to this, going out and having fun with anyone. It was almost foreign in a sense to be doing so, and Ella only realized then how much she had changed, as well as how different this Summer was in comparison to any others before it.

"I—" she went to say, but paused, grounding her teeth. "I don't know yet." She walked out into the living room, a blank look on her pale face. "How are you feeling?"

Her mother's brows raised as she considered the question. They had done this before. "Ella, I'm fine. I go back to work Monday morning, you know that."

A nod. "I know."

She gave her a reassuring smile. "You can go out if you want, El. I'll be fine, hunny." She offered her a genuine grin, nodding toward the television. "I have shows to keep me occupied, there's ice cream in the freezer, and"—She reached in the basket below the coffee table, pulling out a half made sweater—"I started knitting."

Ella chuckled a little. "I guess you have it all figured out then." There was a short silence, before her expression turned serious. "Are you sure you'll be alright, Mom?"

"More than fine, sweetheart," she answered, her voice honest.

The girl could only nod, and even though she was glad that her mother was feeling better, and was even encouraging her to go out and have fun, she couldn't help but still worry, the fluttering in her stomach making her feel more uneasy as she drove to the store.

* * *

"I just don't know, Soda," Mary said, her big eyes wide with skepticism. Her lips were pressed down, her arms folded around her middle. "I just can't see how I'd be able to lie to Aunt Vera. She watches me like a hawk."

Soda reached across the table, trying to ignore the sound of the customers inside the shop. He took Mary's hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Well, you don't gotta lie completely, darlin'. Just tell her that I'm taking you out to the movies or somethin'." He gave her his one-of-a-kind grin. "I promise it'll be alright."

"I've never been to a rodeo," she admitted, a blush tinting her cheeks. "Will it be real wild?"

And while Soda was eager to bring Mary along with him, that was exactly what worried him, too. The rodeo usually got plenty crazy, and while girls from both sides of town came along or participated in the day programs, the nights could get hectic. It was a different world then, all loud and obnoxious, but in Soda's eyes—as well as his friend's—that was what made it fun. The only reassurance that Soda had about Mary going along with him was that Evie would be there with Steve, and possibly Ella Mitchell, whom she'd been trying to get to have some fun for the past few weeks.

The golden-haired teen grinned. "You betcha! But look, Mary, I promise I won't leave ya alone for a minute, and I'll have you back home by midnight—"

"Eleven," she interrupted, her face becoming nervous. "My curfew is eleven."

Soda nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, then. Eleven it is."

Mary looked thoughtful, but inside she was terribly worried. Lord, but if her aunt found out that she was attending a rodeo with Soda, she would probably have a heart attack. Mary knew better than to disappoint her aunt from many past experiences. If she so much as put a toe out of line, Aunt Vera would punish her for it. She wanted her niece to be a proper young lady, to be a perfect house wife, to be smart, graceful . . . raised with formal etiquette. And Mary . . . she had done her best to learn and remember everything her aunt had taught her, but whenever she slipped up, or said something wrong, Aunt Vera would send her to her room to study book upon book about the art of being a lady. The girl could recite half of them at this point, and even though she was sixteen and had lived with her aunt for years, she was still awfully terrified of the woman.

"Okay," she agreed, exhaling slowly. "Alright. I'll tell her we're going to the movies." And then her expression turned downcast. "I don't have proper attire for a rodeo, and I can't go dressed like . . . well, dressed like this."

Soda raised a brow at Mary's turquoise dress, which stopped a few inches below her knee, the top pulled up as to not expose anything, and finished off with a ribbon. Steve was right, he noted, his girlfriend did look like a typical Soc girl, but Soda knew better—he knew that she wasn't anything with a label. She was simply Mary DeVaney. And that's what he adored about her.

He licked his lips. "Well, I'll see if Evie can get you somethin'. Before we head over there, you'll be able to change, and before we come back, you can change into your clothes."

"Oh, I couldn't do—"

"Sure you can," he insisted. "Look, it'll work out just fine. I promise."

And then the dark-haired girl's eyes lit up, and she relented. "Alright, Soda. I'll tell Aunt Vera that we're going to the movies tonight."

* * *

Neither Ella or Mary had ever been to a night rodeo before, and judging from both of their expressions, they were nervous. Even dressed in Evie's clothes, Mary stuck out—she didn't look the part of a tough girl, and the jean shorts and sleeveless blouse tied at the waistband that she had borrowed from Evie made her somehow look younger than sixteen. Ella just looked plainly anxious, but at least her outfit—similar to that of Mary's and Evie's—didn't make her appear younger than what she was. Soda had been right, though, Mary had come to learn. The rodeo was crazy alright—wild, crazy, and obnoxious. They had already seen three fights, drunk people stumbling over each other, and Ella was certain that Mary had nearly fainted when she heard some of the profanity coming from the older and rougher street guys that were there.

Soda, Steve, and Two-Bit were balls of energy, and while they goofed off placing bets, chatting with some of the people they knew, Ponyboy had stuck with the three girls, though mostly Ella and Mary, as Evie went to talk with some girls she knew.

It was only when Ella saw Evie reach out and grab a familiar blond by his arm that her heart started hammering away in her chest, and so much did she want to look away. Dallas stood tall, and boy, did he look proud. Ella had seen many sides of him before, but this was different, and somehow, she had understood. The rodeo was his stomping grounds, his territory, and every ounce of excitement and pride he held came out full force at this place. The brown-haired girl was caught off guard by the way he looked and spoke that night, the way he held himself, as if confidence merely radiated off of him and made everyone look his way . . .

". . . so you better not lose on me, Winston," Evie was saying, one hand on her hip. "I heard you're racing Shiloh."

He nodded. "Don't worry, girly. I ain't about to lose." And then he side-stepped her, taking one look at the trio behind her, his eyes landing on Ella's for only a second. A cocky grin stretched about his mouth as he winked at her, and then he disappeared into the crowd of jockeys and cowboys, and Ella felt her heart plummet downward.

Evie made her way back to her, Mary, and Ponyboy. "My bet is on Dallas, so I told him that he'd better not fuck this up." She cat-grinned. "I hope he's as confident as he looks tonight."

* * *

Dallas's eyes were focused, his gaze straight ahead on the track, breathing even. Inside, his heart was pounding, adrenaline pumping white-hot through his veins. This is what he lived for. This is what he took pleasure in. On the outside, he appeared cool, calm, and collected, his expression determined but stony. The sound of the roaring crowd faded into the background, the movements around him seeming to slow down. Shiloh was twitching below him, and though she was old and a little ratty, Dallas was confident that they would win. He'd seen Buck earlier, and the lanky cowboy seemed to be in a better mood, but whether that was because he'd been drinking or because he was actually assured that Dallas would win, he didn't know.

Still . . .

He'd barely registered the bell before the gates flew open, sending the horses running out. His gaze remained neutral as he raced Shiloh around the track, and up around the second bend, he spotted his friends up in the stands, his eyes immediately finding Ella's petite frame beside Evie and Ponyboy. He blinked, looking at her, though barely able to see her face, but he was certain she was staring right back at him. With a low growl, he pushed Shiloh harder, moving past two more horses in a matter of seconds, blood pumping rapidly beneath the surface, his eyes blazing and focused as they reached the final stretch.

* * *

Ella's lips were parted, eyes broad, as she watched Dallas creeping up on the one horse in front of him with ease. She felt like her pulse would beat straight through her in that moment, but she also never felt so unbelievably excited. And only when Dallas did pass the first horse, the crowd getting louder and louder, did Ella start cheering along with them. She leaned forward, head bent to the side so that she could see better, and when Dallas crossed the finish line, coming in first, a true grin broke across her face, a rush of pure adrenaline surging throughout her body as she clapped.

Evie was jumping beside her, fists in the air, because of Dallas's win, which meant that she would be winning some cash from her bet. Mary looked happy, too, and Ella felt that rush spreading inside of her again, that wild feeling of freedom burning hot beneath her skin as she stared down at Dallas, who was already off of his horse, Buck Merril at his side . . .

"C'mon," Evie said, pulling her arm. "We're goin' to celebrate!"

* * *

Ponyboy wasn't sure how he ought to apologize to Mary, especially since Soda was at her side all the time, practically glued to her hip. The younger teen sighed, wondering what he even should say to the raven-haired girl. He knew that he had been awfully rotten to her, even looked at her harshly, but he had come to realize that Two-Bit was right—with everything that had happened, it was better to be happy for everyone rather than not be. Speaking of Two-Bit, the rusty-haired greaser bent over the chair behind him, eyes trailing his gaze as he cocked an eyebrow.

"Tell you what, kid," he said almost quietly, "I'll stall your brother so you can talk to Mary. He won't even know what happened if it's all discreet, know what I'm sayin'?"

Ponyboy craned his neck back, nose scrunching at the alcohol wafting off his friend's breath. "You don't have to do that, Two-Bit."

"'Course I don't, Ponykid," came the blunt response. "But I want to. So, let's head on over there and crash their little party."

The younger boy didn't even have a chance to reply, because Two-Bit had pulled his chair back and nearly caused him to fall on his ass. He glared at him for a moment, before the two of them headed over to the table that was occupied by Soda and his girl. They walked around Steve and Evie, who were dancing to the loud and booming music, both of them engrossed in each other.

"Howdy, kids," Two-Bit greeted, and nodded once to Soda. "You wanna join in a game of poker? Some guys back there were askin' for ya."

Soda's face lit up, but then he looked across the table at Mary, and his gaze crawled to the clock above the bar—it was almost ten. "Shoot, Two-Bit, I don't think I got enough time for a full game. Maybe another time, yeah?"

The older teen pursed his lips for a second, before raising his index finger with enthusiasm. "Alright, then, how's 'bout you come and join me at the bar for a hard-earned drink?" When Mary gave Soda a smile and a nod, assuring him that she would be just fine, Two-Bit nearly ripped him out of the seat, pointing at Ponyboy. "This charming fellow would like a dance with you, Mary, hunny."

Ponyboy's ears burned, but he tried to cover up how nervous he truly felt. "I . . ." He wasn't sure what to say, so he sat down, resting his arms on the table in front of himself. "Look, I wanted to thank you for giving Soda the book, and I wanted to apologize for how I treated you last week." He took a breath, looking the girl in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

And Mary smiled, her own face instantly relaxing. "There's nothing to forgive, Ponyboy." And then her brows raised ever so little as she attempted to sound calm. "How about that dance?"

Across the room, Ella took the two glasses of soda that were handed to her, before maneuvering her way back to the table she had been sitting at with Ponyboy. Once she realized that the younger teen was no longer there, she looked around the room, her eyes only lighting up when she spotted him dancing with Mary, both of them expressing sheer contentment. They seemed to be immersed in some kind of conversation, and Ella had to grin at them, placing the drinks on the table and taking a seat. She watched Steve and Evie dance to nearly every song that played, Two-Bit and Soda talking to some guys at the bar, and let herself relax a little while she sipped at her drink.

The girl was only interrupted from her thoughts when somebody sat down in the booth behind her, a hand reaching out and twirling a piece of her hair. She jerked around in an instant, her face twisted into a mixture of shock and anger, only softening when she realized it was Dallas. His eyes were a little brighter than usual, not glazed over with anger, or stony and cold, and she realized he was a bit intoxicated at that particular moment. Still, she offered him a small smile, glad to see him, but also nervous, especially recalling the last time they were alone together.

"Congratulations on your win," she said, unable to keep her eyes on his. "You did great."

He leaned over the booth more, letting his one arm drape behind her as she turned so that her side was facing the table. Being that close to each other, they could feel one another's breath, hear each other breathing. It was no surprise when Ella's face turned a shade, and Dallas smirked at the effect he had on her, knowing exactly how she felt. A chuckle fell past his lips as he wrapped another piece of her hair around his finger, the sound causing a shiver to ghost up her spine.

"Well, what can I say, huh?" His voice was low and deep, his body leaning forward all the more as he pressed his mouth hot against her ear. "It's all in the way you ride."

Ella went to respond, but her lips could only part, a squeak-like sound passing through them as the hairs on the back of her neck stood, goosebumps forming across her arms and legs, eyes broad. She felt glued in the booth, unable to speak or move or . . . do anything. And even though her hair was blocking direct contact between their skin, Ella had felt Dallas's lips moving against her ear, his finger moving out of her hair and sweeping the opposite side of her neck.

But it was over as quickly as it started, and Dallas only offered her a wry smirk before he winked, reaching into his pocket and handing her a folded up piece of paper. "Give this to Ponyboy," he said, and, not waiting for a response, moved out of the booth and headed over toward the bar, leaving her seated there with a dumbstruck expression plastering her face.

 _And babe, don't you know it's a pity_

 _That the days can't be like the nights_

 _In the summer, in the city_

 _In the summer, in the city_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3  
**


	8. The Night On My Side

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Bon Jovi owns "Wanted Dead or Alive."**

* * *

 _It's all the same, only the names will change_

 _Every day it seems we're wasting away_

 **July 20, 1966**

Ella was listening to Angela ramble on and on and on and . . . on. Usually, she didn't mind talking to the younger girl, but this particular morning, she was excessively annoying. Angela Shepard always held a certain amount of sass to her presence, and Ella could only sit there listening to her yap away while sucking on a cigarette. Usually, Ella never found herself in these predicaments—she'd never had a lot of close female friends to gossip with, or complain to, or gush about boys with, so listening to Angela going on about how much of a jerk both of her brothers were made Ella both sigh with boredom and smile with intrigue.

The black-haired girl lit up another cigarette. "It's all because of that idiot Daxon Jones. He thinks he can just get away with sellin' on my brother's turf." She inhaled deeply. "I guess he didn't expect Tim to call him out, the jerk."

Ella nodded along, vaguely curious. She hadn't the slightest inclination about the gang wars, only the divide that existed between the West side and the East side, but she didn't even involve herself with it, instead choosing to remain neutral. It wasn't fair, she thought—she had friends on either side—and besides, what difference did it make based on how much money a person's family had? Ella would never understand that concept, nor would she understand Tim Shepard and Daxon Jones fighting each other because of territorial grounds. Okay, so maybe that made sense, but still . . .

Angela was still speaking, her nose scrunching up with disgust. "You know somethin'? I told my mom that our damn washer was broken, and she just looked at me and told me to bring the clothes down here for washin', like I've been doin'." She huffed. "She don't give a hoot about nothin' but her sleazy boyfriend, who thinks he's my daddy, the prick."

Ella winced, unsure of what to say. If she expressed any form of pity, Angela would get angry, going on that she didn't need anyone feeling sorry for her. If she moved on to another subject, Angela would think that she wasn't listening to her, or didn't want to, and get annoyed and walk away, complaining that nobody ever wanted to hear what she had to say. So Ella had learned to keep her trap shut and just let the younger teen ramble on until she decided to move on herself.

She began fanning herself with her hand. "Boys are such jerks. All they care about are their gangs and stupid stuff."

The brown-haired teen stubbed her cigarette, turning her head to peer inside the laundromat, eyeing the clock to see how much longer she had left of her break—fifteen minutes. "I suppose you're right," she replied, leaning back against the exterior of the building. "I just try not to pay attention too much."

Angela sighed dramatically. "But you also don't gotta live with it. Tim is holding some war council with his gang and Brumly, 'cause of Daxon Jones. I think he was gonna talk with the Curtises, too, but I don't know squat." She rolled her eyes. "Ain't like Tim or Curly ever tell me anything pertaining to what's going on, you know, because it's a man's world an' all."

"You seem to know quite a lot," Ella responded, though not sounding indignant. And then her eyes widened ever so slightly as she recalled Angela's words. "What does the Curtis family have to do with any of this?"

"Well, Dallas is part of that group, ain't he?" She shrugged. "Dally's been plannin' shit with Tim for the last week or so. I'm sure they paid a visit to Jones, and that's why he had one of his boys jump me; it was all just a ploy to get back at Tim."

The older girl inwardly grimaced. "Jesus," she mumbled, pursing her lips. She internally cringed as she considered Dallas for a moment. Her stomach flipped as she recalled Saturday night—the way he had practically whispered in her ear, twirled her hair around his fingers, the way his breath felt against her skin. And she remembered seeing him heading out with Cherie Peters afterward, the same girl he had dated several months back. She had thought when they had broken up that they were done for good, and her heart sank as she recalled seeing the two of them leaving together after the initial celebration four nights ago. "Do you know what's going to happen?"

Angela cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Now you're interested?" She chuckled lightly. "I don't. I only know that Tim is having a war council, probably gonna be a rumble between his gang and the River Kings some time soon." She crossed her arms. "And Tim is gonna probably ask the Curtises and their group to join in with him and Brumly." There was a brief pause before she continued. "And Tim is gonna need all the men he can get."

* * *

Ponyboy sat at his desk in silence. He was lost in his thoughts, wondering if Dallas had even cracked his book open to read, wondering what he would think, wondering when he could speak to Mr. Franklin next about the official publication, if ever. A sigh escaped his mouth as he considered his book for a moment, briefly reconsidering the entire thing. It really depended on Dallas, though, he figured. He really wanted the older teen to find some form of acceptance in the story, wanted him to understand things a little better with a keener eye. Ponyboy assumed that was really all Dally needed—some insight so that he could find peace with himself.

He was flipping Johnny's letter between his fingers, remembering how Ella had given it to him last Saturday, a baffled expression on her face as she handed to him. She had said it was from Dallas, but having completely forgotten about asking for it back that same morning, the younger teen had been utterly confused . . . until he opened it, that is. Ponyboy had been mildly surprised that Dallas had given him the letter back, and on the same day he'd asked for it, no less. Still, it had been four days since then, and Ponyboy could only wonder if Dally had decided to read his book. Nobody had seen him around since Saturday night, though—it was as if he'd celebrated his win and had vanished.

The letter seemed almost haunting, then. Ponyboy's mind was occupied with the message inside, and he could only wonder how Dally was going to react to the ending of his book. Oh, glory, he thought almost miserably. Perhaps, it would be better that he didn't move forward with the publication, but then what had been the point of getting this far? Golly, but he was only one person short on the consent form, and the teen felt nearly sick as he thought about the one person that was keeping him from going along with it. How would Dally react? Would he beat his head in? Would he relent and give his consent, or would he be too embarrassed—though his humiliation would probably manifest and shape itself into an eruption of sheer anger.

Ponyboy tossed the letter onto his desk with a sigh, reaching up to rub his temples. Good Lord, but what had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Tim looked like he wanted to pummel someone, and he probably did. His face was stony but stern, lips clamped together, his posture stiff. To the right of him, Dallas was leaning back into the couch, a few members of Brumly's outfit seated along the back wall. They were in Ricky Easton's basement, the only place that could fit a large amount of people comfortably, dirty as it was. Dally's nose wrinkled as he eyed the place—he'd slept in worse conditions.

"So, we gonna bop with these guys?"

Dallas rolled his eyes, wondering where in the hell these Brumly boys came up with their vocabulary; he was certain Ponyboy had mentioned the same thing a while back, going on that those guys probably couldn't even spell their names right. The blond had to smirk at that—the kid was more than likely right. The Brumly Boys were alright in terms of street smarts and the like, but Jesus H. Christ, anything else was a lost cause. Their leader, Terry, wasn't half bad, but it was hard to get near him without a damn oxygen mask.

Tim answered, his voice low and firm. "I want to catch Jones's boys in the act, send a message back to Daxon first."

"What'd you need us here for, then?" came another inquiry, and Dallas wished desperately for a cancer stick, a scowl on his face.

Apparently, Tim was getting anxious, too. Dally already knew the plan—he and Tim had discussed this shit the other day. Tim wanted one or two of the Brumly Boys to meet up with some of the members of the River Kings, find out who was selling, and what they were selling. It would be that night if they could pull this stunt without any fuck-ups. Dallas was certain that once word reached Daxon's ears that his boys had been set-up, there would be a rumble—he and Tim had no doubt about it. Besides, Tim was itching to beat the shit out of Daxon for messing with Angela, and Dally couldn't fault him there; hell, he wanted to beat Daxon's head in, too, just for the thrill of it.

While Tim went on to explain the details and give out the orders, Dallas crossed his arms behind his head, wishing that they could just get this show on the road already. He hated hearing things repeated, hated the wait, too. There had always been a certain thrill to getting involved with dangerous shit, and it had been quite some time since the blond-headed hood indulged himself in anything real entertaining, well, except that day he had coerced Ella Mitchell into jacking a car with him. Good Lord, but he would never be able to get the expression on her face out of his mind.

It had always been a riot getting under her skin, and Dallas couldn't help but to enjoy it. She just got worked up so easily, upset over the littlest shit, and then she would come back at him with one of her sassy quips. Hell, that little broad sure had a fiery tongue, but Dallas knew her well enough, and he also knew that she was into him—that fact had been made plenty clear at the bar Saturday night.

". . . find out what their product is, and how much it's goin' for," Tim explained. "I need specs, and I need them by tonight." His voice was hard and firm. "I have no doubt that Jones is gonna want a rumble after this, and we're gonna need all the men we can get, especially if he drags in the Tigers."

* * *

Evie ran a hand through her dark locks as she walked toward the bus stop. She hated having to take the bus to and from work, but with Steve working, she had no means of transportation. Her father had the car during the day, so whenever her shift started later, she had to take the bus. It bugged her something awful, but Evie was tough and had learned to suck it up ages ago. She could complain about it all she wanted to herself in her head—at least then she didn't have to bother anyone with her feelings. Well, Steve knew how she felt, and glory, he'd expressed worry more times than none. Then again, it wasn't exactly safe for girls to be walking the streets alone, and Steve's issue with Paul Hopkins only increased the dark-haired boy's concerns for his girlfriend.

After Angela Shepard had been jumped, Steve had made it clear to Evie that she shouldn't walk alone, and quite frankly, Evie agreed. Things were getting mighty bizarre on their side of town, what with the Kings moving in on Shepard's turf, Paul and his crew jumping Steve and Soda? Evie was worried, too, nervous even. Hell, when she'd learned that Soda had been practically knocked unconscious, she had panicked, only to have Steve assure her that they were both fine—good thing Dally and Tim had shown up just in time.

The brunette continued her walk to the bus stop, glad that her shift was over. She was only given a lousy six hours, but it was five o'clock, which meant that there was still plenty of time left to get fixed up for an evening with her boyfriend. The thought caused a smile to form on her lips, as she and Steve hadn't been on a date in a while. It was exciting to think about, especially since neither of them had had any alone time together in a few weeks. Things had been tight—Steve was working full-time, Evie's hours were sporadic and hectic, and when it all boiled down, they either didn't have time to do anything special, or they were both too tired, or, in Evie's situation, wasn't allowed out after certain hours.

Evie was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't notice the car trailing her. It didn't take long, however, for that very same car to pull up right beside her, the front right tire bumping up on the curb inches from her. The girl's eyes went wide as she internally began to panic, and when four boys piled out of the car, she took a step back. Now, Evie Martin was no coward, not by any means, and while she could pack a punch as brutally as she could spit out an insult, she was not going to overpower these guys. She knew it, they knew it, and she knew she was fucked. Her mind immediately began racing with memories of Steve telling her what to do if she ever found herself in this type of situation, and as her eyes darted around herself; she knew that she wasn't going to outrun the four of them, either. Perhaps, she could scream . . .

But Evie was frozen where she stood, and as she stared those boys down, she realized that she didn't recognize any of them—they were older than her by a good few years. She wondered if Steve would know them . . . and then she quickly realized that they were probably buddies of Paul's.

"Randle's chick, are ya?" one of them asked, blowing smoke in her direction as he moved toward her.

Evie's chin raised ever so little. "Who's askin'?"

He smirked. "Heard you was a sassy little broad." Dropping the cigarette, he shook his head. "It's too bad . . . you ain't so bad lookin'."

Her eyes went wide. "What do y'all want, huh?" Even her voice shook a little, and she suddenly felt terribly vulnerable. She considered Angela for a moment, wondering if she had been scared when the Kings came after her. "I'll scream," she threatened, desperation clearly written across her face.

But they all laughed at her, and the first one came closer. "Go ahead, sweetheart. See what happens."

Evie had heard plenty of stories about girls getting roughed up before, never anything overly serious, but it wasn't unheard of, either. Hell, Cherry Valance had the guts to drive over to their side of town nearly a year ago, _and_ had the courage to strut up to several hoods at once. If Two-Bit Mathews hadn't been there, Evie knew that Shepard's gang would have messed her up—they weren't above messing around with females like that, and apparently, neither were Hopkins's friends. With the guys, it was mostly fights just for kicks, or just to get even with each other, like Dallas Winston and Tim Shepard, unless it was territorial. When it came to the social classes, the boys were more prone to fights, whereas the girls were just cruel in the way of hushed whispers and endless drama. But the Soc guys didn't bother with the girls from the other side of town, unless it was just petty name calling, but nothing ever drastic. Hell, there was more of a chance of their own kind roughing them up, like Angela Shepard getting attacked by the Kings, or Evie in this situation.

However, Evie was unsure of what to do, but she took her chances and ran. Unfortunately, she didn't make it very far, as her heels prevented her from doing so, and when two of the boys caught up to her, grabbing her arms and forcibly jerking her back around, she yelped in defeat. Her bag was kicked to the side, part of her blouse tearing at the seam where they'd pulled her back, and her brown eyes went stark wide as she came face to face with the first boy again, a lethal smirk on his lips.

She didn't have time to register the hard slap in the face, the tightening grip on both of her arms, the violent shove that sent her sprawling back on her bottom, or the final kick sent directly to her left hip, which caused her to cry out. Her chin was grabbed roughly, the stench of stale cigarettes and liquor wafting into her nostrils as the instigator stared straight into her eyes. She could feel the callousness of his hands, see the dangerous glint in his orbs, and she was afraid.

"Tell yer fuckin' boyfriend to return those hubcaps, or next time will make this one look like a causal visit," he spit. "You got that?" At her nod, he released her roughly, telling his boys to beat it. They kicked some dirt in her direction as they strolled past her, not sparing her another look as they piled back into the car and drove away.

Evie was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring in anger, tears trailing down her cheeks as she rubbed her hip, trying to get the image of those boys out of her head, replacing it with that of Steve, his boyish smile that was reserved only for her, or his obnoxious cackle-like laugh, or the way he looked at her when they were intimate . . . and she clenched her teeth, fighting back more tears as she tried to wipe the sand particles off of her face and out of her hair, her eye catching something in the distance.

* * *

Ella found that cleaning dishes was somewhat therapeutic. When her mother left for work, and she was alone in the house after dinner, she would clean up, scrub the dishes while mulling over her thoughts and the events that happened that particular day, and then relax. With her mother back to work, Ella found that she worried more frequently. She didn't like her mother working the bar—she never had—but with her condition, she had grown more concerned. Then again, what she averaged in tips was a rather prodigious increase to what she brought home from the antique shop.

The girl sighed, reaching for the wire scrub brush to wash the excess grease out of the baking dish. So maybe every part of cleaning dishes wasn't relaxing, but Ella found that her time alone was nice, for the most part. It didn't take her long to finish up with the cleaning, and once she was done, she set up for the next day, and then made her way out to the living room to watch the television. It took her a few minutes to settle on something, and only when she was comfortable and situated did the damn phone ring. It always made her nervous, as she feared the worst, and she silently hoped that it wasn't about her mother getting sick or something like that.

"Hello?"

"Ella?"

The girl instantly relaxed at the sound of Ponyboy's voice. "Hey, Pony. What's up?"

"It's Evie," he said quickly, and Ella's eyes went wide. Before she could inquire, though, the younger teen was already addressing her silent questions. "She was jumped today by some of Paul Hopkins's friends . . ." He released a sigh, and Ella could hear his voice, which he was trying to keep level. "She's okay right now, but her parents aren't allowing anyone to see her tonight."

"What happened?" she asked, twisting the cord in her hand. And then the questions in her mind were flying from her mouth before she could stop them. "Paul Hopkins? Isn't that the same guy who went after your brother and Steve? Is there anything that I can—"

On the other end, Ponyboy pulled the phone away from his ear a little, even though he expected this reaction from Ella. He knew how close Ella and Evie had become, and he understood that Ella was worried, probably would make herself sick if he didn't console her, which is why he had been quick to inform her that Evie was okay.

When all went silent, he began speaking again. "Yeah, but it wasn't Paul himself that attacked her. It was a few of his friends, or at least, that's what she told Steve. Anyway, she's okay, and Soda's doing fine, too."

"Well, that's good to hear," came the response. "I'll bet Steve is pretty worked up, huh?"

"Yeah," Ponyboy answered. "Listen, Ella . . . don't go walking by your lonesome, alright? It ain't safe with all of this going on at once."

A pause. "Ponyboy, did Steve really steal Paul's hubcaps?"

Ponyboy felt his shoulders drop at the question, lips pursing a little. He knew that Steve was notorious for lifting hubs—sold them, too. He wouldn't put it passed the older boy to do something like that to Paul, but he'd seemed too adamant that he hadn't done it this time, and Ponyboy wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Well, Soda had looked mighty serious when he relayed that Steve hadn't taken them, either, but Ponyboy honestly wasn't so sure.

"I really don't know," he said, and then added, "I gotta go, Ella. Just remember what I said, savvy?"

"Savvy," she replied.

Hanging the phone up, Ella couldn't help the sinking feeling in the very pit of her gut. She thought about her mother out there by herself, Angela Shepard, Soda and Steve, and now Evie. Was anything safe anymore?

* * *

Dallas wasn't too certain that anyone knew how to follow a simple fucking plan anymore. He really wanted to light into Shepard about how much of an idiot he was for trusting any of them Brumly's with this job in the first place. Oh, sure, it wasn't like Daxon Jones would ever suspect those assholes to want to purchase his product, but they were too stupid to spell their fucking names right, and apparently, they were too stupid to follow a carefully devised and laid out plan. The job was simple—two of them would meet up with the Kings who had been sellin' in the back alleys, find out the scoop, purchase whatever was the cheapest shit, and scram. Why was that so fucking hard?

But, oh, no. It had been _too_ fucking hard, apparently, because while Tim, Dallas, and a few others waited for them, one of them clowns fucked something up, and the next thing, they were pulling out knives and pipes, going at each other in a matter of seconds. Then, one of Shepard's idiot recruits darted out to join the commotion, and both Tim and Dallas wanted to beat his head in for exposing them. Dally couldn't imagine the guys back in New York being this stupid, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how in the hell Tim had ever deemed that punk smart enough to join his ranks.

Nobody knew exactly what had happened, either. One minute, Brumly's and Kings are fighting, the next, Shepard's kid is goin' in, and then . . . somebody fires a heater. Nobody was shot or nothin', but it was a warning, one that alerted the fucking fuzz and sent blaring sirens their way. There had been chaos, and then the eight of them scattered, Tim and Dallas taking off down the back alley, before splitting at the tracks and going their separate ways. Dally didn't know where in the hell he was going, but he knew that he and Shepard had been spotted, because he was being trailed by a fucking cop. It was dark, though, so they wouldn't be able to tell if it was really him, and if he found a place to lay low for a while, he wouldn't be hauled in. Any other time, he wouldn't have really given a shit, but with the damn probation hanging over his head like a death sentence, he wasn't too keen on getting caught and adding to his rap sheet this time.

So he continued running as it started to pour, cutting through back alleys that he knew all too well and staying out of the light as much as he could. The siren was still trailing him, and the closer he got to the intersection that divided the borders of their side of town, the louder they became. Great, he thought, angrily. Ever since that incident last year, the fuzz had been on their asses like crazy, so when one side went off, they called in reinforcements—fan-fucking-tastic.

Dallas froze at the sight of red and blue flashing lights, his clothes drenched through, and, clenching his jaw, teeth grinding into each other, he jerked around on his heel and headed in the opposite direction to circle around the other way. He ran like the devil was after him, approaching a familiar neighborhood moments later, a thought crossing his mind—one he didn't exactly like, but still . . .

It was one shot to lay low for the night, and he was taking it.

* * *

Ella watched her window light up every few minutes as lighting streaked the sky. It was storming out, and the girl found that she couldn't sleep that night, or morning, rather. She squinted, eyes adjusting on the clock—two in the morning. Good Lord, she thought miserably, but she was going to be dead at work later that day, and she really wasn't looking forward to Ginger's snarky attitude, either—no way. She had assumed that the woman would have warmed up to her by now, at least a little, but she hadn't, still mistreating her and trying to instigate things, or that's how Ella saw it anyway. Adjusting herself on her bed, she snuggled under the sheet, the coolness from the fan putting her at the perfect temperature for comfort.

Her eyes closed, and she tried desperately to force herself to sleep, but just when she found herself beginning to dose off, something hit her side window. Ella practically reared up in the bed, her breath hitching in her throat when she heard it again. And then there was light tapping. Realizing that it was somebody trying to get her attention, she quickly got up, flicking the light on, and pushing the drape aside to see who was out there. It took only a second for her to realize who it was, and her heart instantly began pounding in her chest as she pushed the window up, the faint sound of sirens reaching her ears through the storm.

Dallas was glaring at her. "Move a sec," he barked out, and only when she took a few steps back did he pull himself up on the ledge to expertly climb up into her bedroom. "Shut the light off," he said, rapidly turning back to close her window and pull the drapes back in place.

Ella did as he asked, the room becoming nearly dark, save for the small light on her side table that she left on during the night. She turned back to face Dallas, crossing her arms over her chest as she took in his drenched appearance and the bitter expression on his hardened face. She had already gathered from the police sirens that he was in some kind of trouble, and she was curious to know what he'd done now.

"Why are you here?" she asked, keeping her voice even.

The blond glowered. "Look, I need a place to lie low for a bit, and this was the closest, so I took my chances."

She sighed. "Those sirens for you?"

"What do you care, huh?" There was a bite in his tone, and Ella flinched.

"Well, you're in my house, Dallas, I think I have a right to know if you did something," she replied, making a face at the water he was dripping onto her floor. "You're soaked."

His face twisted, fingers twitching at his sides. "Really? Like I ain't noticed that, dumbass, it's raining for Pete's sake."

"Shush," she hissed, and pointed at him. "My mother is sleeping, and I don't need her barging in here to find . . . you. And, Jesus, you're dripping all over my floor!" She shook her head. "Wait here, I'll get some towels."

Dallas could only stare at her, wondering where in the hell _that_ sass had come from. She reminded him of a mother scolding her child or some shit, and the feeling made his insides crawl. Ignoring that particular thought, he pulled his shirt off, draping it along the back of her desk chair, and kicked his boots beside her dresser, eyes darting around her room and taking everything in. Hell, she must've liked purple, because the walls were coated in a lilac color, the folded back comforter on her bed a similar shade. The room itself wasn't large at all—holding a twin size bed, one dresser, a makeshift desk, and one night table. There were pictures on the walls, a small table in the corner holding a record player, and all sorts of albums on a few crammed shelves. His nose wrinkled at the sight of the Beatles, and he inwardly cringed at the thought of Ella Mitchell digging the fucking Beatles.

Speaking of Dopey, she entered the room a minute later, and Dallas raised an eyebrow at her attire, just now taking in exactly what she was wearing. Hell, he thought, but he was certain that he'd never seen _that_ much of her skin before, and even though she was the most pastiest chick he'd ever seen, seeing her like that actually made her look somewhat good in the dim lighting.

He smirked. "Nice nightie, sweets. That what you usually sleep in?"

Ella's face immediately went red as she realized that she had never slipped her robe on, and here she was clad in a nightgown that stopped a few inches below her thighs, the nearly sheer white material hanging loosely against her frame, while the top curved down and split between her chest. Before responding, she dashed toward her bed and wrapped her robe around herself tightly, ignoring the satisfied grin of the blond-headed hoodlum across the room from her. With a scowl, she threw two towels at him, wishing more than anything that his shirt was still on, because she was red from staring at his bare chest and torso, her mind racing with thoughts that her dreams only conjured up.

Turning her head a little, she sat down on her bed while Dallas dried off. Her stomach was twisting at the thought of him being there in her room with her like this. Ella never had a boy in her room before, and just the thought alone of the first being Dallas Winston caused a tingling sensation to creep up her spine, her bottom lip getting caught between her teeth.

The towels dropped on the floor at the end of her bed as Dallas nodded to her in thanks. "You got a lot of shit," he remarked, plopping down beside her.

Ella's brows furrowed, but she didn't respond to his comment, instead going back on her earlier question, a lump in her throat. "You never told me what you did."

His eyes narrowed a little. "It ain't exactly your business, sweets." At her glare, he smirked, though it wasn't friendly. " Took care of some shit for Tim, since some guys jumped his kid sister."

"Oh," she mumbled out. "Did you hear about Evie?"

"What about her?"

Ella sighed, relaying what Ponyboy had told her over the phone earlier in the evening, her chest tight as she thought about her friend. It wasn't fair, she thought to herself, that all of this was happening, that her mother was sick, Angela had been jumped, Evie attacked, Soda and Steve getting into a similar predicament . . . She wondered when things would cool down, when things would be safe, when none of them had to worry about it being safe to walk the streets.

Dallas was itching for a cigarette, and listening to Ella talk wasn't helping things. "Look, girl, don't worry about it. Steve will take care of those guys, and Evie will be fine."

She shot him a look, but she was too tired to argue. "Sure."

He was already off of the topic, though, instead letting his gaze trail her legs—particularly her thighs, which were _very_ exposed beside him. He'd never realized how small her frame was until then, but he'd also never really paid attention to Ella all that much. He decided that he liked her this way, though, whatever the hell this way was. No makeup, free hair . . . and leaving very little to the imagination. As he breathed in, he could smell her perfume throughout the room, could smell _her_ around himself, and his jaw clenched as he briefly considered what she might feel like, or even taste like. Hell, that was an interesting thought, but . . . he wasn't gonna go there. Ella already liked him, and even if he decided to entertain her little fantasies, or fuck her senseless, there would be nothing to it, and he really didn't need her becoming another Cherie. No, Ella was fine being . . . Ella. Dopey Ella.

"What are you staring at?" she asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. Her eyes were wide, lips a bit parted, cheeks tinted pink. "Dallas?"

The hood could only cat-grin, knowing that she was uncomfortably flustered. "Nothin' much, 'cept the fact that I was right about you." At her confused look, he continued. "You practically light the entire damn room up with how pasty you are."

Ella felt her heart sink a little, inwardly becoming self-conscious all over again. Dallas's quiet laughter made her feel even worse, but she tried to ignore it, instead tossing him a blanket and a pillow and telling him that he could sleep on the floor while his shirt and boots dried. After that, she climbed back into bed, pulling the covers all the way up, even though she was hot, and pressed her face into her pillow so that she didn't have to see him.

Dallas shuffled onto the floor beside the bed, his face scrunching at his soppy jeans. His lips curved ever so slightly as he glanced up at the bed. "Hey, sweets, your mother ain't gonna come in here to check on ya or nothin', right?"

"No," she answered, sounding sure of herself. "I'm usually up before her anyway."

"Good," he replied, and stretched out, lips curving up all the more as he considered his next move.

Just as Ella got comfortable again, the sound of a zipper caused her eyes to snap open. "What are you doing?" she asked, voice between a hiss and a screech.

"Well, I ain't sleepin' in wet pants, dumbass," he responded, kicking the material off his legs.

Ella wanted to scream. "Oh my God," she cried. "You're not . . . You're not sleeping in my room barely dressed!"

"Well, I can remove the last of—"

"No!" she said, before he could even finish. "Just . . . Just stay down there." She still couldn't believe that any of this was happening—that Dallas Winston was hiding out in her bedroom, half-naked, and wanted by the cops. Good Lord!

Dallas was grinning, though, actually enjoying how fun it was to get her all fired up. Hell, he was really only toying with her, but she really got worked up. It wasn't like he was advancing on her or nothin', and she'd been with Craig for several months . . . so what was the deal? Or maybe it was because she liked him _that_ much. Glory, but he figured it really wouldn't be that hard to get in her pants if he wanted to, but he didn't, even if the idea was almost entertaining.

Leaning back, he rested his head on the pillow, the smell of her shampoo wafting into his nostrils as he turned onto his side. "Christ, you sound like a damn virgin, sweets. It ain't like you've never messed around before. You dated Fish-Eyes for a while there."

"I—" Ella started, but immediately shut her trap. Craig and her had never done anything more than kiss, and even their brief make-out sessions never moved passed exploring each other's mouths; there had never been anything more. If Craig pecked her neck once, that was a lot. She felt her cheeks becoming terribly hot, her body flush and warm. "Go to sleep, Dallas."

Dally's brows were pressed together as he stared down at the floor. Holy shit, he thought, gaze drifting back toward the bed again. Ella . . . had never . . . He made a face and turned over, folding his arms behind his head as he let the thought actually settle in. Strangely enough—and he wasn't even sure why—but he dug it, not that he would ever tell her that.

"By the way, sweets," he said lowly, "I prefer _Dally._ "

 _'Cause I'm a cowboy, I got the night on my side_

 _I'm wanted dead or alive_

* * *

 **Fun Fact: Dallas and Ella were _never_ meant to be a couple in "Green Light", which originally had no intention of having a following sequel. But what happens now remains to be seen! **

**As always, y'all, thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! I appreciate it so much! :3**


	9. Life Is A Reality

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Seekers own "Georgy Girl."**

* * *

 _Hey there, Georgy girl_

 _Dreamin' of the someone you could be_

 _Life is a reality_

 _You can't always run away_

 **July 24, 1966**

"So what time are you working today?" Ponyboy asked, blowing out a perfect smoke ring, his gaze focused out straight ahead.

Ella flicked her ashes beside him. "Ten to three, which isn't too bad. But my boss cut my hours back a little since I've made the store a secondary job."

The younger teen nodded. "You really make that much more at the laundromat?"

"Surprisingly, yeah," she answered. "That doesn't mean I like working there, though, but at least it pays the bills, you know?" A sigh. "My mom is doing a lot better, still worn out, but much better."

"That's good," came the response, and Ponyboy offered her a tentative smile. It was nice sitting on his front porch with her, and he was glad that she'd stopped by, even if only to deliver him a late birthday present. He, Soda, and Darry had gone on a fishing trip for the weekend, like Darry had promised him a few weeks back, and honestly, the fifteen-year-old had been shocked that he'd remembered. Then again, Ponyboy was coming to learn that his oldest brother was full of surprises. They had only just gotten back that morning, and Ella arrived only a few hours afterward, giving him a new record, and they had spent the last hour talking. "How's Evie?"

Ella's eyes lowered for a moment, but she answered quietly. "She's okay. I mean, Steve told me that she's better than what she was. But she's been a bit jumpy."

"Gee," Pony said, stubbing his cigarette. "I know she was pretty messed up over it last week. I heard about the Shepard's sister, too." He shook his head. "Things really are getting rough."

She nodded in agreement. "Nobody can leave each other alone."

"Yeah."

The two sat in a brief but comfortable silence, and Ella was glad and thankful that she had a friend like Ponyboy. They could talk to one another, or sit in absolute silence without feeling uncomfortable or awkward. There was no need to try and impress each other, no need for anything. They simply got along and understood each other, and Ella was grateful for their friendship.

"So," she said, starting another conversation, "I heard that you're letting Dalla— Dally read your book. How's that going?"

Ponyboy's brows raised. "It's goin', I guess. I ain't heard from him since I lent it to him last week." He glanced at her. "Where'd ya hear that?"

"He told me," she admitted, breaking their stare. "I saw him yesterday in the store, and he told me that you gave him your book." A shrug. "Figured it was why we were sneaking around during the school year." A chuckle fell past her lips. "I _did_ tell him that it was something incredible."

The red-headed teen snickered, lighting up another cigarette. "Yeah, well, I'm just hoping he don't beat my head in for it—with the ending and all." There was a pause before he continued. "I haven't spoke to Mr. Franklin since the beginning of Summer. I hope he don't think I'm blowing this off."

"I don't think so," Ella leisurely replied, crossing her arms over her knees. "He probably knows that you need some time to get the consent form filled out for everyone you used in the story. I'm sure he understands that."

"Sure."

The girl went silent, running the material of her skirt through her fingers, the fabric somehow feeling cool despite the heat. She silently wondered what Dallas would think of the book, or how he would react to his death scene at the very end, and then she remembered seeing him in the store the day before, an unusual look on his face while he spoke to her. He hadn't said whether or not he'd started reading the book, but he'd sure acted . . . differently while speaking to her about it. Then again, Ella herself had hardly been able to look him in the face, remembering that he'd spent the night barely dressed in her bedroom last Wednesday. She hadn't seen him that morning when she'd woken up; he was already gone, his clothes and boots no longer where he'd placed them to dry, and Ella had thought that she'd dreamed the entire thing . . .

The pillow and blanket she had let him use were tossed on the end of her bed, and the only reminder that he'd actually been there was the faint smell of his cigarettes and his overall scent that was left on the pillowcase. Ella would never tell anyone that that particular pillow had become her latest cuddle buddy during the nights. A light blush tinted her cheeks as she thought about that, and it made her almost feel strange that Dallas hadn't mentioned anything to her about that night when he'd seen her yesterday in the store.

Glory, she was such a sap.

Ponyboy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Are you going to Buck's tonight?"

Ella shrugged. "I don't know." Evie had invited her over the phone Friday night, and truthfully, Ella had been surprised that she'd even consider going herself, especially with what had happened. Then again, Ella had to remind herself that Evie was a tough girl, and she was never one to back down or let things get to her too easily. "Are you?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm going to hangout with some guys from school, you know, catch up and all." He flicked his ashes. "I'm supposed to meet up with my buddy Richie from track down at the bowling alley later, but I know Two-Bit is gonna be there tonight, and so are Steve and Evie, and Dally, most likely."

The girl nodded slowly. "What about Soda?"

"He's gotta date with Mary."

* * *

Dallas was grinding his teeth hardly, fingers tightening around the book as he read the pages within, a bitter expression plastering his face. This was the _incredible_ thing that Ella told him the kid was doing all those months ago—this particular book. He couldn't believe Ponyboy had written about them, and now he knew why it had been such a big secret, and why Pony had questioned him about how he would feel if somebody wanted to use his name in a book. Reading about himself felt strange, and after the second chapter, he tossed the book beside him on the bed and lit a cigarette. He couldn't believe those events had taken place nearly a year ago, and just thinking about them made his blood boil. Thinking about Johnny only fueled his anger.

Face turning stony, he reared his foot back before swinging it forward, his boot whacking into the night stand hardly. Fuckin' Ponyboy. He wasn't sure whether to be mad at the kid or what, but he was pissed, pure undoubted rage creeping up his spine and spreading through his veins. The blond wasn't even sure what he was really hacked off about, but for some reason, reading those events and reliving them made him angry, aggressive, and bitter all at once, and three of his most negative traits morphed into one was never a good sign.

The sound of the front door slamming caused the teen to jerk forward on the bed, nostrils flaring as he heard his old man entering the house. Fucking great, he thought angrily, this was exactly what he wanted to deal with right then. And as if on cue, the sound of his heavy footsteps moving down the hall caused his eye to twitch. He'd probably gotten a whiff of Dallas's cigarette smoke, but that didn't matter in the least—the entire fucking house reeked of booze and smoke . . . and whatever else.

"Ever hear of knockin'?" Dallas asked as his father pushed his door open, taking one step inside, beady eyes drifting around the room and landing on the teen.

They had always disliked each other. Dally's father blamed him for his mother walking out on them, Dally hated him for driving her out, and they could never see eye to eye. The teen's bitter resentment of his old man only intensified every time he had to set eyes on him, every whack, hit, punch, hate filled remark he'd ever made boiling in the back of his mind like a ticking time-bomb. Furthermore, he despised being back in that fucking house, and every second spent there only made him more furious.

His father eyed him coolly. "I don't gotta knock in my own house, boy." His sneer seemed to be almost permanent. "The fuck you doin' here anyway?" And then his lips curved up and curled in, revealing small teeth, a sliver of mockery in his pale orbs. "What? You get kicked outta some other place again? Shouldn't you be out causin' trouble, or getting' locked up?" A snicker. "Ain't that the only thing you know how to do?"

The teen's jaw clenched. "Fuck you, old man. At least I ain't sittin' on my ass all day shootin' up or bending my elbow." His fingers curled back, shoulders stiffening. "Ain't that the only thing _you_ know how to do?"

He barely had time to dodge the empty beer bottle, the glass breaking against the wall behind his head. There were two more empty ones on the dresser by the door, and Dallas, pent up on rage and pure adrenaline, only encouraged more. He shot up off the bed, and then the two of them were at each other's throats, spitting out obscene insults, throwing punches, and trying to throw the other down. This had been a normal routine in the Winston household since Dally had gotten big enough to hit back, and since then, his hatred for his father manifested and boiled over time, until there was nothing left to do but hate him.

Dallas had always been strong, had always been tough, and getting beat from a young age had only made him harder as a person. But his father was a brute man, broader and a little taller than his son, and being induced with alcohol only made him that much more violent, so when he grabbed Dallas and gave him a forceful shove, the teen flew backward a few feet from the impact, whacking the wall behind him and thumping down onto the floor. The last two bottles came at him next, one landing beside him, and the other crashing against his arm, which he had raised to block his face. He felt the gash from Dylan Jones split open again, and his teeth ground as warm blood trailed down his arm.

His father pointed at him. "Get the fuck outta my house," he spit, and then jerked back on his heel and left the room, mumbling shit under his breath the entire way that his son only half heard. "Useless piece of shit . . . worthless, good-for-nothin' . . . biggest mistake . . ." The usual.

Dallas rested his head back against the wall, blond wisps falling in his eyes, and he told himself that he didn't care none, repeating the mantra to himself until it settled in and he believed it all over again.

* * *

"Who would want to self tan anyway?" Jan was saying, shaking her head. She flipped the bottle in Ella's direction. "Have you heard of such a thing?"

The girl nodded. "People have been trying that since . . . ages ago."

Jan cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, hunny, I know that, but it's ridiculous. Who needs to be fake when the sun is right outside?" Even though she looked appalled at the store's latest shipment, there was a playful sound in her voice. "I'm just saying that natural is better."

Ella grimaced, subconsciously glancing down at her milk white arms, the only color she had coming from the few speckled freckles that adorned them. Ella had never really paid too much attention to herself in the looks department, but recently, she had. She began noticing little things about herself that she hadn't before, like the way her right eye appeared to be a hair lower than her left, or that her jaw was slightly crooked when she smiled, or how plain and dull she looked without makeup. She had become accustomed to seeing her face all beautified, thanks to Evie, so whenever she removed the stuff before she went to bed, she could only see herself as plain and unattractive. Still, being pasty pale had never really bothered her before . . . until now. She could never tan naturally, for the sun would simply crisp her body until she came inside looking like a lobster. Glory.

When Jan walked away, Ella eyed the tanner critically, wondering if it could work for her. She had seen how gorgeous it had made some of the models look, and the more she stared at it and thought about her lack of color, she felt compelled to use it. Dallas's words echoed in her mind like a broken record, and she thought about all the times he had made a snide remark regarding how light she was. The girl never realized how much it bothered her until this moment. She didn't want to let the silly words of anybody get to her, but they were . . . and it was because of Dallas, and along with her feelings being so overwhelming, she wondered if he might . . . notice her if she looked like one of those sun-kissed pinups, or one of those bronze models in magazines.

Her thoughts drifted to Evie and her skin color, and she suddenly found herself envying how nicely she could tan by just walking outside for a few measly minutes. Golly, but Angela Shepard was dark, and it was all natural. Why couldn't she be like that?

"Ella, you about ready for your break?" Jan called, poking her head into the aisle.

The teen had nearly jumped, but she forced a grin on her face and nodded. "I'll be right there," she called back, and with one last glance at the tanner, she felt a smile form across her lips. She would be back for one later.

* * *

Mary's aunt was a stern woman, so stern in fact, that even Soda felt his hands becoming clammy in her presence. She watched him like a hawk, scrutinizing eyes trailing his every movement while the two of them sat in the parlor. If he so much as shifted on the couch, or twiddled his thumbs, her head was jerked in his direction, eyes narrowing just a little. The golden-haired teen felt odd enough being in that house, but he liked Mary— _really_ liked her—and he wanted to do right by her. So he did his best to keep his cool and tolerate Aunt Vera's imposing looks and cynical attitude.

He had arrived only ten minutes ago, and apparently, Mary was still getting ready. Soda had only been inside of her house twice, three as of this moment, and every time Mary would come down the stairs dressed and ready to leave, Aunt Vera would inspect her outfit, fixing anything that she didn't like, before giving her official approval. She had questioned, more like interrogated, Soda both times, her face remaining stony as she did so. She wanted to know where he lived, what his parents did, what he did for work, what he thought about certain . . . topics, and everything else that made him feel like he was being interviewed by one of Hollywood's reporters.

The best one was when she'd asked him if his name was really Soda, and when he'd he answered yes, she merely tsked, before inquiring if he had a middle name. From that moment on, she had called him Patrick, not one for any type of informality, which apparently included proper names. Soda didn't have to like this woman, he decided, but he would do his best to remain polite and decent to her, but only for Mary's sake. Speaking of Mary, Soda couldn't understand how in the world she could tolerate living in a place like this, not that the interior of the house was awful, but with her aunt. Glory, Soda thought that he might have ran away a dozen times if he had to live like that.

Hell, for some reason, Johnny's face went through his mind, and he wondered what was worse: Living in a house where you were ignored, or living in a house where you were controlled. Well, at least, Aunt Vera didn't beat on Mary, as far as Soda knew, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Cade, who abused Johnny both verbally and physically.

The sound of footsteps caused Soda to perk up, his thoughts instantly shoved aside, and when Mary entered the parlor only a moment later, he stood up like a proper gentlemen, and moved to kiss her hand, her face tinting red, and golly, how he adored it. He took in her appearance, a grin on his face as he did. She always looked nice, her best color being any shade of brown, or black—warm like her—so when his eyes trailed her beige dress, which stopped an inch or so above her knees, he felt his grin stretch a little.

"Mary," Aunt Vera addressed, moving to circle her. She frowned at the length of the dress, slowly shaking her head. And then her eyes flashed to Soda. "Would you mind stepping out of the room so that I may speak with my niece privately?"

It wasn't exactly a question, but Soda nodded, doing as she asked. He remained close by, though, even after she'd closed the doors to the room. He pressed himself against the side wall, silently listening to their conversation. He knew it was rude to do so, but he was curious, and the look on Aunt Vera's face when she glanced at Mary after Soda had stepped out wasn't exactly . . . kind. Lord, but he wondered how in the hell they were related—they were nothing alike—and then he thought about Mary's parents and what they might have been like.

"Sit down and cross your legs," Aunt Vera instructed in a firm tone. There was shuffling, and then Aunt Vera spoke again. "You see?" she asked, and Soda imagined she was shaking her head. "This is not proper for a young lady to wear while being accompanied by a boy. Even crossed at the ankles, I can see nearly half of your thighs." Silence. "Go and change."

"Aunt Vera—" Mary had went to say, but was interrupted by the sound of a slap, and Soda flinched, wondering if he ought to barge in and say something. But he knew better, and with all the control in his body, he remained still.

"Do not backtalk me, girl," the woman said, and even though she had just slapped her niece, she spoke in a calm and collected voice. "I will be heard in this house, and I will not have a wench living under this roof." Her tone became softer after a moment. "You are a lady, Mary, and it is my duty to teach you as such. Now, go and change into something more . . . presentable."

Soda made a face, backing away quickly at the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned to the side, pretending to study the painting on the wall in the foyer, his hands tucked in his pant pockets to keep them from shaking with anger. He only turned when Mary and Aunt Vera stepped out of the room, and even as Mary walked past him to move up the stairs, her head remained downward, eyes focused on the floor the entire way.

Aunt Vera waited until she disappeared to look at Soda. "In this household, we follow a strict form of proper etiquette in which Mary must abide." Her expression was terribly piercing, but then it turned condescending, a hint of mockery seeping through her voice when she spoke next. "I do hope you can . . . understand that."

And then she was gone, leaving Soda standing by his lonesome, the underlying message in her words eating away at any good feeling he previously had. Aunt Vera didn't like him, and she certainly didn't think he was good enough for her niece—the message was clear.

* * *

Ella was crying, tears spilling over her cheeks like a waterfall, hands covering her eyes so that she didn't have to see herself in the mirror . . . or see herself at all. Good Lord, but she didn't know how she could have been so damn stupid, how she'd let this happen to herself. A sob escaped her lips as she wiped at her reddened face, sniffling all the more. Glory, but she really thought that the tanner would give her a nice and gradual glow, not turn her arms and legs . . . _orange_. She was streaked with three different colors—orange, bronze, and her natural milk-white.

Plainly put, she looked ridiculous.

And to top it off, she was supposed to be attending the party at Buck's in only an hour. She had made a promise to Evie that she would show up, but there was no way in hell that she was going now, not like this. The thought alone was humiliating enough, and she felt sick and disgusted with herself. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she decided that she would have to scrub the tanner off of herself, or at least, attempt to. She had already tried wiping some of it away, but it seemed to be glued to her skin, and the more she scrubbed, the redder her skin became and the more streaked it appeared. Part of her right arm where she had scrubbed was already turning raw.

Ella wanted to scream her head off, sob herself ugly . . . _something!_

Deciding to just get it over with, she filled the tub with hot water before climbing in and letting herself sink down, the warmth enveloping her and lapping away at her skin. Glancing down at her body, Ella almost feigned a smile, wondering how her skin could almost appear evenly colored under the water—it was odd, but she could just about imagine what she would look like if she had a natural tan, and oddly enough, she found that she preferred her paler complexion. Perhaps, she just wasn't meant to be tan at all, but rather, ghostly, like Dallas had smarted when he was taking jabs at her.

The teen began scrubbing and rinsing her skin over and over again until the water cooled off and she was left wrinkled, the tanner still streaked and discolored. She wondered how many showers she would have to take before all of it came off, and the thought was enough to make her miserable all over again. She hoped that her mother would know what to do, but then again, she always had a solution for most problems. The girl sighed, stepping out of the tub and wrapping her robe around herself once she was dried off. She brushed her hair back, letting it hang loosely around her like a cocoon, and she decided that she would have to call Evie and tell her that she couldn't make it. Ella actually felt bad this time, for she was just getting used to the idea of hanging out with her friends, and she had actually been looking forward to having a good time.

Making her way out to the kitchen, she called Evie, deciding to use the excuse that she didn't feel well, which wasn't a complete lie. She knew that her friend was going to be upset, but there was no way she could attend looking like . . . _this_. It took all but a few rings for Evie to pick up, her voice as chipper as ever, and Ella imagined that she had been downing some of the wine she kept stashed under her bed, a vague smirk curving her lips a little.

"Evie, it's Ella," she said, running the phone cord through her fingers.

"I was just about to call you," came the response. "Your ride is on the way."

Ella's brows furrowed. "Ride?" she repeated, sounding as skeptical as she looked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, well, Steve told me that Dallas was gonna swing by and give you a lift since you're on the way, and besides, Buck wants his car back," Evie explained. "So, be ready."

The older teen wanted to die right then and there. Her breathing was becoming heavier in her chest, and she wondered why in the hell everything always seemed to have bad timing for her. Perhaps, she could pretend that she wasn't home when he arrived, or something. No, that was dumb. She had to think of something, but what? Anything, that's what!

"Um, actually, Evie," she began, faking a cough, "I don't think I can make it tonight, that's why I called you. I think I'm coming down with something. I don't feel too good . . ."

There was a brief silence, and Ella felt her chest tighten as Evie responded in a critical voice. "You really have to pick the worst night to get sick, don't ya?" A dramatic sigh. "Well, that just blows, don't it? Alright . . . well—" She trailed on, and Ella covered the mouth piece to sigh in relief.

But, just then, her doorbell rang, and she all but jumped. "Evie, I have to go! I'm sorry I can't make it, but I'll catch you tomorrow!" And with that, she hung up quickly, grounding her teeth as she peered through the curtains at the silhouette of Dallas. Oh, glory.

Her eyes drifted to the clock that hung in the middle of the room, eyes broadening. Well, she would just have to tell Dallas what she'd told Evie—that she was sick and couldn't leave the house. Besides, it wasn't her fault that he'd volunteered to come and get her, so it didn't matter. Evie was supposed to be picking her up, not him, and with an expression of sheer distress, she cracked the door open, watching as Dallas's face came into view under the porch light, a confused look in his eyes as he took in her attire, probably wondering why in the hell she wasn't ready to leave.

"Evie just told me you were coming," Ella admitted, biting her lip.

Dallas's brows furrowed. "I've seen some skimpy attire, but I don't think a bathrobe suits you, sweets, not for a party anyway."

Her face twisted. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not going. I'm . . . sick."

"Sure," he replied, and Ella knew that he didn't believe her. "Sick, or looking for an excuse to get out of goin'?" Despite the blunt accusation, his voice remained collected. "You don't look sick to me."

"Well, excuse me, hood, but aren't I allowed to not feel well?" she asked, ready to slam the door in his face. "I don't have to be sick to not feel well." Her tone dropped. "I have a headache."

"You're givin' me one."

Ella stared at him for a good moment, wondering where he got off thinking he could just . . . take jabs at her whenever he liked to. She wanted to tell him what he could do with himself, but she just wasn't in the mood to argue with him, or . . . anything really. Honestly, she was more satisfied with the idea of flopping down on her bed with one of her records playing quietly in the background with a big bowl of ice cream that she could stuff her face with—that sounded perfect.

Glaring back at Dallas, she responded, not hiding her annoyance. "Well, I'm not keeping you here." A sarcastic, half-smile graced her lips. "But there is a party waiting for you at Buck's."

One corner of his mouth twitched. He knew when he wasn't wanted. "Well, your highness, since I came here an' all, the least you could do is give me a cigarette or somethin' since I—"He cocked an eyebrow at her, patting his pant pockets—"ran out."

"Sure you did," the girl muttered, rolling her eyes. But if it would get him away from her faster, she decided to just give him one. "Just . . . wait here," she said, cracking the door and making her way down the hall to her bedroom. She grabbed two, tossing the pack onto her night table, wondering how come she could never just tell Dallas to get lost. But, her thoughts seemed to tease, he did look awfully good . . . as good as a guy like Dallas Winston could look in ratty jeans and a dark shirt. She scowled, shoving her feelings aside and making her way back out to the living room, her heart almost stopping as she stared at the blond-headed hoodlum, who was standing inside the room. "I thought I said to wait outside."

"Did you?" he quipped, staring at her cockily. "Well, it's buggy out there, sweets. I was gettin' all bit up waitin' for your ass."

Scowling, she handed the cigarettes to him. "Can you go now?"

But Dallas seemed to be in one of his moods, the kind that drove Ella up a wall and then some. It was his way of apparently being playful, but in reality, it came out as annoying, rude, and sure to make Ella want to rip her hair straight out of her skull. To make things worse, the way he was just . . . standing there looking down at her was enough to make her flush, and without thinking, she rolled the sleeves of her robe up to cool herself off a little.

"I could," he answered, securing a cigarette behind his ear. "But I need a lighter or some matches first, or else I ain't gonna get this one lit." His smirk seemed to be growing, and Ella was getting more and more aggravated. But before she could respond, his gaze landed on her streaked arms, and his brows drew together as he wondered what in the hell she'd done to herself. He jerked his chin toward her arms. "The hell is that?"

Ella felt her stomach twisting up, and as quick as lightning, she hurried to pull her sleeves back down, teeth grinding in anger, humiliation, and desperation—all together, mixed, and aimed at both Dallas and herself. She wanted to yell at him to get out, for even showing up in the first place, for being so annoying . . . and for making her apply tanner to herself. Lord, she just about hated herself, and more than that, she was frustrated with Dallas's presence being there with her.

"Nothing," she bit out, jaw tightening. "Just a burn." Her nostrils flared. "You'd better go, that party is probably starting and you're missing it."

But the blond ignored the last part of her statement for a moment. "Yeah, I'm certain each of my burns made me look like Tony the Tiger."

The girl's face twisted instantaneously at the hood's insult of comparing her to Sugar Frosted Flakes's infamous mascot, her blood boiling beneath her skin and pumping profusely. Sometimes, she really, _really_ loathed Dallas Winston, and what killed her was the fact that no matter how much she hated him in one single moment, she still liked him all the same. In a fit of pent up emotion and exasperation, the girl swatted his arm, knocking the cigarette from between his index and middle finger, her eyes forming tears as she gave him a rough shove.

"I'm so sick of everyone telling me that I need to get some color, or that I'm too pale, or . . ." Her lips were trembling. "Or that I need to change my hair, or anything about myself. I just wanted some lousy color so everyone would quit making comments, including _you_ ," she bit out, eyeing him harshly.

Dallas was merely staring at her, unfazed by her words or attitude. So what? She'd gotten a little upset over some snide-ass remarks. Big deal. Glory, but Ella seemed to live in her own little world where everyone's comments impacted only her, as if nobody else hadn't ever had to live with the bullshit of other people. What surprised him more, though, was the fact that she'd actually felt compelled enough to do something so fucking ridiculous—like use some kind of fake tanning shit—because his teasing comments had gotten under her skin so easily.

"Yeah, well, maybe you ought to consider growing thicker skin," he said in a bored tone. "Reality don't revolve around you, sweets, get over yourself." And, grabbing her arm, he briefly inspected the damage with a scowl on his face. "I don't know much about this shit, but try baking soda or somethin'—it seems to work miracles on everything else . . ." His nose wrinkled as he considered Soda's raunchy shoes for a second. And with that, he bent down to retrieve the fallen cigarette, before turning his back to Ella and making his way out the front door.

Ella watched him go, a solemn expression on her face as she thought about what he'd said.

 _Bring out all the love you hide_

 _And, oh, what a change there'd be_

 _The world would see_

 _A new Georgy girl_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback!  
**

 **Wishing everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving! :3**


	10. Walk the Streets

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. George Thorogood and the Destroyers own "Bad to the Bone."**

* * *

 _Now when I walk the streets_

 _Kings and Queens step aside_

 **July 29, 1966**

Steve had been patient. He'd been waiting for Paul Hopkins to get out of jail, and now that he'd heard he was a free man once again, he was going to pay him a little visit—teach him a fucking lesson about messing with his girl. Steve had been so pissed, his anger flooding his veins and driving him forward for the last few days. Just looking at the fading bruises on Evie's face where one of Hopkins's buddies had slapped her and grabbed her chin too roughly was enough to make him see red. Nobody touched his girl—nobody. To make matters worse, Evie had shrugged the entire thing off, making like it was no big deal when it was, well, at least to Steve it was.

In the beginning, it was comical to think that Paul actually thought he'd lifted his hubcaps, and Steve was always down for a good race, so he'd taken him up on his offer, knowing that he was going to win either way—Paul hadn't stood a chance. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Steve hadn't taken Paul's hubcaps, and he had beat him fair and square in the drags several weeks back. Apparently, Paul was a sore ass loser, a pussy, who tried to rough up women to get back at their boyfriends, and Steve was brewing, itching to beat the shit out of Paul.

So when he'd pulled up outside of The Dingo, finding Paul's rust bucket, he shoved his hands inside his pockets and headed inside. It didn't take long to find Paul, either, as he was seated in one of the back booths with two other guys. The scowl on Steve's face seemed to be indented in his skin, and at this point, it probably was.

"Hopkins," he growled once he was in earshot of the older greaser. "I want a word with you."

Paul's brows shot up, a small smirk becoming visible on his face. He knew Steve was going to come looking for him, and honestly, he'd been looking forward to this moment ever since he sent some of his crew after Randle's chick. And now it was just too good, and Paul figured that he had Steve right where he wanted him.

"Good to see you, Randle," he replied casually, stubbing his cigarette out on the table. "You bring my hubs with ya?"

The dark-haired teen's jaw clenched. "I didn't take your fucking hubcaps."

"So you just . . . agreed to race me because you"—He waved his hands around condescendingly, eyes darting at Steve and his two friends—"didn't take them?" His voice was full of mockery, that damn cocky expression on his face that Steve wanted so desperately to wipe off. "You know what I think, Randle?" he asked, and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think yer a lying son-of-a-bitch." Nodding once to his friends, he continued. "What do you think, boys?"

Steve ignored their input, eyeing Hopkins bitterly. "I only agreed to race you because I knew you'd lose anyway. And the deal was that if I won, you'd forget about your missing hubcaps—and I beat you fair and square."

Hopkins shrugged, pursing his lips. "And so what's your deal, then?"

"You sent your boys after my girl, that's my fuckin' deal," he snarled back, taking a step forward. Glory, but he just wanted to slug this bastard already, and picturing Evie's face in his mind wasn't helping his anger in the slightest. "You must think you're a big man, huh, goin' after a girl. Well, here's what the fuck I _know_." His voice was low and bitter, a clear sign that he was livid. "I know you're a sore loser who's too much of a wimp to confront a guy one on one, man to man. Instead, you gotta send your buddies, _four of 'em_ , after a girl when she's all by her lonesome and vulnerable, 'cause you're a balless little prick."

By that time, a few other guys had turned to watch the commotion as Steve intentionally raised his voice, some of them staring at Paul with hard expressions, which is exactly what Steve wanted. It was a common rule that you didn't go after girls, so letting everyone in on what Paul had done was somewhat satisfying, for Steve knew that he would probably get his ass kicked for it.

Paul was seething, jaw whitening from how hard it was clenched. "You ain't got any proof."

It was Steve's turn to smirk. "Don't I?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out an old faded wallet and tossing it onto the table. "I think Evie's face is enough proof, but in case your buddy, Billy Weidman, is missing his license or anything, let him know that Evie was kind enough to want it returned to him after he accidentally dropped it while he was busy threatening her." When Paul could only stare, his face contorting into a mix of defeat and rage, Steve grinned. "By the way," he continued, and before Paul could blink, his face was met with Steve's fist, sending him backward on his ass, the table groaning beneath his weight. "That's for Evie." He sneered. "I didn't take your fucking hubcaps, either."

And with that, Steve made his way out of The Dingo, ignoring the scene behind him as Paul's friends tried to help him, the other guys already tossing out insults, and Steve knew that he wasn't going to have any more issues with Paul Hopkins.

* * *

"What have I told you, girl?" Ginger snapped, placing her hands on her hips. She glared down at Ella, a sneer on her face as she eyed the teen with contempt. "If you're going to work here, Miss Mitchell, you really need to learn how to listen and pay attention when things are being explained to you." She nodded to Mrs. Johnson's basket of pressed and folded laundry. "Mrs. Johnson likes her—"

"Whites and colors separated," Ella finished. Glory, she was so sick and tired of Ginger accusing her of not paying attention. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why every week Mrs. Johnson would change the order of how she wanted her laundry placed. The first week, she wanted whites and colors separated, then she wanted towels and cloths off to the side and done separately, and then everything had to be arranged in a specific order. By this point, Ella seriously thought that Ginger was screwing with her intentionally just to make the job harder on her, and quite frankly, Ella was getting fed up with the assistant manager's behavior. "It changes every week, doesn't it?"

The older woman wrinkled her nose. "Well, Mrs. Johnson is a very . . . particular woman, but what she requests is what we produce, so with that said, Miss Mitchell, you need to learn how to listen and pay attention, as well as follow orders around here." She shook her head with mock exasperation. "This is already your second warning."

When Ginger walked away, Ella angrily pulled her work apron off and tossed it on the counter in the back. She was so glad that it was her break because she was in dire need of fresh air and a cigarette, not that she depended on the latter to calm her down or anything. Golly, but she'd had enough of Ginger's sharp tongue and hostile attitude, and as she made her way outside, she considered on just up an quitting her job. But then she rationalized, knowing that she couldn't quit—not with those stack of bills still piled high on the kitchen table. She and her mother had a ways to go before any of those medical bills were fully paid off.

As the teen stepped out into the heat, she rubbed a hand over her forehead, wiping a few sweat beads away, and exhaling deeply. Her toes wiggled around in her shoes, and she decided that it was _definitely_ time to get that new pair—her feet were burning, and lack of support was making it difficult to stand and move around for long periods of time. Perhaps, she could get Evie to take a trip with her to the thrift shop or something later that afternoon—they sometimes had clothes and sneakers that were still in good condition, and if she was lucky, she figured that she might just find a good pair of supportive shoes that didn't make her feet ache and cramp after a shift at the laundromat.

"You always let people treat ya that way?"

Ella's head snapped up, and her jaw practically spilled at the sight of Dallas Winston. He was casually standing a few feet from her, his back pressed against the corner of the building between the side and the small alley next to the discount store. She was more than surprised to see him, wondering what in the heck he was doing lingering outside of a laundromat on a Friday afternoon. She expected him to be causing trouble somewhere, or getting prepped for another nightly rodeo, not loitering near the place she worked at. Then again, she did find it somewhat comical, as if she could just let herself imagine that he might have been waiting for her . . .

She pursed her lips. "What are you doing here?"

The blond shrugged. "Nothin'." And then his eyes raked over her, and Ella felt herself flushing—and not because of the heat, either. "See you got rid of them streaks."

"Yeah," she replied, voice wavering. "Don't remind me about that . . ."

Golly, but she had tried using baking soda, like he had suggested, and it had taken her a few showers or so before the tanner was completely gone from her body. Still, the incident made her feel stupid and silly, and she didn't ever want to think about it, wanting nothing more than to forget it completely. She had even tossed the bottle in the garbage, pretending that she had never gotten it in the first place. As she thought about it now, though, she realized that Dallas had been right—she really did need to grow some thicker skin.

He smirked. "Why? You don't like being called Tony?" A wry chuckle fell from his lips as a scowl crossed her face. "You gotta admit, sweets, it was pretty funny."

But Ella wasn't in the mood for jokes, especially when she was the center of it. "Oh, you mean like coercing me into a stolen vehicle was funny, too, right?" Her arms crossed as she blew air up against her face to cool herself off. Her teeth were grinding the more she tried to wiggle her toes around, and she really just wanted to call it quits for the day and head home.

"I didn't coerce you into nothin'," Dallas replied, making a face at her sassy attitude. He was about to make another snide remark at her, one regarding how sweaty she was, or something just to hack her off all the more, until he took in her beat red face and arms, her lips, which she kept moistening with her tongue, and the fact that she looked anything but comfortable. Usually, he wouldn't give a Yankee dime about anyone's comfort but his own, simply telling them to suck it up and deal with it, but Dopey looked like she was about to pass the fuck out, and he really didn't want to deal with that shit. With a blank expression, he peeked into the laundromat through the front window and cocked an eyebrow at the two industrial fans placed on either side of the store. Glory, he thought, but it must have been over one hundred degrees in there, especially with all them dryers running, Christ almighty. He glanced back down at Ella and rolled his eyes. "C'mon," he bit out, jerking her arm to get her attention.

"What?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

"You're goin' to get somethin' to drink," he answered in a hard voice. "I ain't gonna watch you pass out from the heat like a dummy."

The girl nodded, too sluggish to argue. Besides, she had already finished off her thermos of water that she'd brought with her that morning, and a cool drink sounded fantastic right then. She walked with Dallas to the corner store down the block, desperately trying to ignore how sore her feet were. Once she was inside, she rushed to the back to grab a bottle of soda, wishing more that it was water, but decided that it would have to suffice. She didn't wait to pay, either, instead downing another one before paying for the two. Dallas had strolled around, watching as the cashier helped a few customers, before stuffing a candy bar into his pocket along with a pack of gum. He met Ella outside a few minutes later, handing her the package of gum without even glancing in her direction.

"Chew on a stick or two," he said flatly. "Keep your mouth moist." And then he tossed her the candy bar, not bothering to say anything else.

Ella cocked her head to look up at him, eyes widening ever so little. "Did you—" She stopped herself before she could finish the question, shaking her head. She didn't want to ask something she already knew the answer to, and she knew that Dallas had just shoplifted. But the thought that he'd gotten something for her, and not just for the thrill of doing something illegal, but to benefit her, was actually amusing . . . and oddly sweet. "Thank you," she finished, popping a stick into her mouth, the candy in hand.

Evie was waiting outside the laundromat when they got back, and her brows raised at the sight of Dallas swaggering alongside Ella. The side of her lips curved as she shot a look at her friend, trying not to snicker at how flushed she looked and how annoyed the hood appeared. It was almost humorous, she thought, how awkwardly fitting they seemed, even if they were only casually walking together. She wasn't unaware of Ella's feelings for Dallas, and she hadn't been a fan of them before, but now, seeing them together like that was strangely . . . intriguing.

"'Bout time you got here," she directed at Ella, nodding once to Dallas. "I was wondering what in the almighty world happened to ya." She smiled. "By the way, I might finally be getting a car."

Ella's brows shot up. "Really?"

The brunette was cat-grinning, inspecting her nails which looked like they were done by a professional, even though Ella knew the girl had done them herself. She went on to answer, beginning to fan herself with her right hand. "Yeah, my mama talked my dad into it, so he might invest in getting himself a new car . . . well, not completely new, but you know what I mean." A shrug. "Me an' Beth might be getting his old car, so that'll be somethin'."

Ella nodded. "Yeah, you won't have to take the bus to work anymore."

"Thank the Lord," came the immediate and dramatic response. "Hell, I'm just about dyin' out here just standing." She shook her head, eyes drifting toward Dallas. "And what is this? You takin' Ella on a lunch date or somethin'?"

The blond merely shrugged, looking disinterested with the entire conversation. "Took her to get a drink so she didn't pass out or nothin'," he admitted. "I'm waitin' for Shepard. He was supposed to be meetin' me here."

Before either Ella or Evie had a chance to respond, though, a police cruiser rounded the corner, pulling to a stop right in front of them. Dallas was glaring, his face instantly turning stony, eyes hard and seemingly unfazed as he eyed the one cop getting out of the car. Evie was busy nudging Ella back a bit, brows knitting together before she glanced at her friend with a skeptical expression. The older teen was watching the scene play out with a baffled countenance, wondering what Dallas had done that he was in trouble, and then she internally panicked as she considered him behind bars. Both girls listened as the officer said a few words to the blond-headed hood, before he was cuffed and seated in the back of the car, the officer nodding once to them before climbing into the driver's seat and pulling away.

Ella felt her heart sink as she watched Dallas's face through the window, her gaze catching his if only for a second . . .

* * *

Ponyboy never dreamed that he would be looking forward to meeting up with Mary at the library once a week, but that had become a thing for them, so to speak, and the younger teen found that he was becoming quite fond of his brother's girlfriend. He was still a little wary around her, but for the most part, he found himself relaxing in her company. Even though they had talked, Ponyboy was never able to figure out what was so . . . off about her, and that unnerved him. Whenever he looked at her, he felt an odd sensation creeping up his spine, as if she were almost familiar.

"So, Dallas is still reading your book?"

Ponyboy nodded, placing a book back on the shelf. "Yeah, I ain't sure how far he is, or if he even began to read it, but I sure hope he gives me some sign or something." Even if that meant belting him, he thought with contempt. Golly, but he just wanted to speak to Mr. Franklin already and get his book out there—the excitement was enough to eat him alive. But he considered the story, a lingering thought hanging in the back of his mind. "Sometimes, I don't know if I even want to publish it," he found himself admitting, brows pressing together.

Mary's expression was quizzical. "Why not?"

He shrugged, moving down the aisle at a slow pace. "I don't know. See, sometimes I just want to get it out there just to get it over with, and other times . . . well, I ain't sure how I really feel about it." His hands moved inside his pockets. "I'm awfully proud of it, and so are my brothers, and our friends, but—" He paused, unsure of how to continue. "I just don't know sometimes."

Mary looked thoughtful, and remembering Soda's words about the inspiration of Ponyboy's book, she sympathized. Of course, she remembered reading about the murder of Robert Sheldon, and the passing of Johnny Cade, as well as Dallas Winston surviving a hail of bullets back in September, but she hadn't connected anything—not even Soda's last name—until he explained his kid brother's novel. Still, listening to the younger teen becoming more undecided with his work made her feel bad.

"Perhaps, you just need some more time," she offered. "I'm sure everything is still . . . fresh for you."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied, and pursed his lips. However, before he could say anything else, his eyes caught hers, and his mouth nearly spilled open. And then he knew what was making him so uneasy, so weirded out by her presence alone. It was the look in her eyes, the very same look he had come to know so well on Johnny Cade. He took in her enlarged brown eyes and long black hair, his face paling by the second. ". . . You're probably right."

Mary went on to respond, but Ponyboy could hardly listen to anything that she was saying, and the more he considered his earlier thoughts, the more his original feelings began to resurface.

* * *

Dallas had been in a good mood earlier that day . . . until Tulsa's finest hauled him in to question him about the incident the week before with Tim Shepard and Co. Dallas hadn't been too surprised to see the older hood behind bars waiting to be questioned in the county jail when he arrived. They had been kind enough to call his parole officer—good ol' Henderson—in as well while they interrogated him, too. The little prick that had been a part of Shepard's crew, whatever his name was—Dusty?—had ratted them out to the fuzz, so Shepard had concocted one helluva tale that Dallas had unknowingly played into, and it took all but a few hours before he was released—but not before Officer Dingleberry, as Tim liked to call him, had taken a few jabs at him and had his rookie sidekick knock him around some just to make sure that he understood "his place in society".

So Dallas found himself at Buck's place later that evening, an ice cold can of Bud held against his head as he contemplated joining Shepard in beating the shit outta his little friend. If he would have kept his mouth shut, neither of them would have been hauled in. It wasn't exactly a secret that Tim had been trying to lie low until shit with that murder charge died out—fucking Curly just had to find a way to be involved with the guy who'd done it, friend or not.

"Here," Buck said, tossing a bottle of aspirin at him. "It ain't much, but it should help some."

Dallas rolled his eyes—he'd had worse than just a bump on the head. The fuzz always did him in pretty good upon interrogation, making sure he got his due before he went inside. The teen was no stranger to fighting, and he was certainly no stranger to being kicked down over and over again, either. No, the cops in New York had done a fine job making sure he knew his place before he'd come back to Tulsa. Still, he popped a few pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry. Besides, he had plans to down a few shots of whiskey before he dropped off for the night.

Buck leaned back against a few stacked crates of beer, eyeing the blond hood in front of him. "You want yer room back or what?"

Dally scoffed, eyes raising to meet the cowboy's. "Lettin' me back in, are ya? You finally realize that you were—"

"Look," Buck said, cutting him off in a sharp voice, "I don't got time for any of this shit, Winston, so if ya want the damn room, it's yer's. Ya hear?"

The teen nodded. "Loud and clear."

"Good," Buck continued, crossing his arms. "Bar's been gettin' awfully crowded, too, so if ya want the job back, you can start Monday night." When the towheaded teen didn't respond, he continued on, reaching for a can of Bud as he did. "Ya know, there's a little gal out there lookin' for ya." He winked, lips curving up. "Says her name is Cherie."

The scowl that crossed Dallas's lips was enough to drop the grin from Buck's face. Of course, he knew who the hell Cherie was, and not even he was a fan of hers. Dallas didn't really want to deal with this shit—just because he'd entertained the little broad for a night or two didn't mean nothin', and he was gonna make sure she understood that this time. He was sick and tired of her following him around—he hadn't gone looking for her, and he didn't expect her to think that they were together. Not like last time, no sirree bub.

"Fuck you, man," he grumbled out, throwing the can at him. "You can have her if you want, maybe get your rocks off for once if either one of ya are desperate enough."

Buck chuckled, tilting his head back as he downed the rest of his beverage. "Oh, yeah. Hell, if she gets drunk enough and shuts her fucking mouth . . . maybe."

A sly grin crossed the hood's lips. "That mouth is good for one thing . . ."

With that he took his leave, heading back upstairs to the room he'd already been using for the past two nights. Once he was inside, he reached into the bedside table and lit up a cigarette, placing a bottle of whiskey on top before flipping the kid's book open and picking up where he left off, the words pulling him back into that dreaded week of September nearly a year ago . . .

 _Johnny gagged and I almost dropped my hot-fudge sundae. "Cherry?" we both said at the same time. "The Soc?"_

* * *

Ella had been thinking about Dallas Winston all day, and she was worried about what would happen to him, or if he'd done something, and what would become of his future if he had. Oh, glory, she thought miserably, but she sure hoped that he hadn't. She didn't want to consider the possibilities of where he would end up if—

The girl stopped herself short, grabbing the mail she had set on the table earlier, thumbing through it with a sluggish look on her face. There were two more bills that needed to be paid, and now the quarterly water bill had come. Ella had become accustomed to taking care of the household with her mother at a young age, and even though she had been too young to actually pay the bills, she had made sure to learn in order to be prepared for things like this.

But her eyes suddenly broadened as she reached the last letter, the return standing out to her. Her heart began pounding in her chest as she stared at it, her stomach fluttering around. It was from Berkeley College, one of the many schools she had applied to several months ago. She wondered what was written inside, and without considering it further, practically tore the seal apart and pulled the letter out in order to read its contents.

 _Congratulations! On behalf of the faculty and staff at Berkeley College, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Berkeley as a member . . ._

She read the acceptance letter, absorbing every word as if she were a sponge, a smile spreading across her mouth as she let the information digest. She had been accepted at Berkeley College . . . in New York! Ella never thought that this would be an opportunity for her, and even though she was excited and bursting with joy, she knew that things were going to be tight for her, especially with her mother being so ill. Her smile turned over immediately as she shoved the letter back into the envelope, walking back to her room to place it on her desk.

With a soft sigh, she walked back out to the kitchen to start dinner, her thoughts drifting back to Dallas once again.

 _I'm here to tell ya honey_

 _That I'm bad to the bone_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	11. Must Be Somethin' Better

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Joe Walsh owns "In the City."**

* * *

 _Somewhere out there on that horizon_

 _Out beyond the neon lights_

 _I know there must be somethin' better_

 _But there's nowhere else in sight_

 **August 2, 1966**

Once he had finished unloading the bales of hay, Dallas tossed his gloves aside, wiping the sweat off of his forehead, his wisps of white-blond hair spilling into his eyes. Glory, but he sure needed to see a barber, he thought, scowling at the idea. He simply wasn't a fan of having his hair cut, or oiled, or anything, so the fact that he needed to trim the front of it hacked him off a bit. He preferred his hair long—long enough that is curled around the nape of his neck and his ears. Mrs. Curtis had scolded him before in the past, but there was always a small smile on her lips while she told him that he ought to let her trim his hair and shape it, like she'd done for her sons.

Grinning in spite of himself at the memory of Mrs. Curtis, Dallas made his way into the stable, coming to a stop at Marigold's stall. Marigold was his horse—the old girl had made a connection with him after the first day he took her out. She wasn't exactly ornery, though she wasn't real easy to bond with, either, but Dally had come to find that Marigold just needed some firmness, no rough talk or harshness—not like ol' Lady, that was for sure.

"Hey, girl," he said, feeding her a carrot. He rubbed at the side of her face as gently as he could manage while she chewed away, before turning her head to nip his shirt. "How 'bout a ride, huh?" he asked in a gruff voice, leading her out of her stall.

Marigold continued sniffing at his pocket, trying to get another carrot, but Dallas ignored her, instead saddling her up. When he was done, he gave her another treat, before pulling himself up and directing her out into the field. It was still pretty early, the sun just on the brink of rising, the colors mixing together and pelleting the sky. The teen had never paid much attention to anything like that, but as he stared ahead, he found that his thoughts were filled with Ponyboy's book, and he wasn't quite sure what to think. He hadn't read too much of it, stopping after the seventh chapter. He hadn't wanted to continue anymore, knowing what lied ahead from that point—and he didn't want to relive it all over again.

When he was far enough out into the field, he led Marigold into a run, letting the morning air graze the skin of his face as he let loose a little. This was something that he could enjoy doing, something that made him forget everything else for a while, especially that damn book. When he'd first read it, he had been ready to throw it against the wall and knock the kid around, but then he'd realized what he was trying to do, and Dallas found that he was somehow invested in the younger teen's thoughts—in his story, their story—his, Johnny's, and Ponyboy's.

But still . . . he didn't want to think about it anymore, didn't want to feel the emotions that had nagged at him all those months ago, the feeling like a shovel digging up a grave. The thought alone was enough to surface his anger, and with an ugly sneer, he pushed Marigold a littler harder, a little faster, until the only thing he could focus on was the horizon up ahead, the morning dew moist on his skin, and the dawning of a new day on the rise.

One day, he would get the hell outta that town.

* * *

Ella almost wished that Dallas would be outside waiting for her during her break, but she knew that it was a hopeless wish, one she desperately needed to shove aside and forget as quickly as possible. She found that the more she was around the blond-headed hood, the more intense her feelings for him became—and she knew that she needed to forget about him. But how? She blinked once, twice, a heavy feeling settling in the very pit of her stomach, nagging at her. Why did she have to let her feelings and emotions eat away at her like this? Why couldn't she just . . . forget?

A flick on the shoulder jerked the girl out of her thoughts, and she found her foggy gaze clearing up instantaneously as she looked into the dark blue eyes of Angela Shepard, the younger teen glaring at her with a look that told her she was annoyed.

"I really feel like I'm talkin' to myself sometimes," Angela said, sarcasm dripping off her tongue. Her arms tightened around her middle as her focus hardened. "I wish this place had air conditioning."

Ella nodded along, embarrassment coating her cheeks. "You and me both, but—"

"Yeah, yeah," the black-haired girl interrupted, rolling her eyes as they stepped outside. "Hardly any place on this side of town can afford it, good business or not."

"Well, at least you don't have to stand in there all day," Ella replied, casually lighting up a cigarette, a frown on her lips. She wiggled her toes around, thanking the good Lord above that she had finally bought herself a new pair of supportive shoes—her feet were no longer cramped or uncomfortable. "So what were you saying about a party?"

Angela's eyes lit up, tiger-like. "Matt Brown is having one tonight. I think you ought to come." Her smile was ever growing, and Ella felt a tinge of reluctance. "I think your boyfriend will be there."

The older girl's eyebrows shot up. "What? I don't have a—"

Angela's laugh was almost mocking. "Hell, Ella, don't ya know when someone is—" She tossed her hands up, before stealing a cigarette from her with a shake of her head. "Oh, forget it. I swear, you get so defensive and literal sometimes that I feel like I can't joke around you." Lighting up, she inhaled. "I meant that Dallas is gonna be there, and it ain't exactly a secret how ya feel about him."

"I—" Ella paused, eyes lowering to the ground beneath her feet. She wanted to say that she didn't have any sort of feelings for Dallas Winston, but that was a lie, and Angela would see right through it. It wasn't as if she was the world's greatest liar, either. She felt angry with herself for being so obvious; it wasn't like she exactly wanted to be Dallas's girl, even if she really liked him. She knew how he was, knew how he'd treated girls before, and she didn't want to be just another notch in his belt. "I don't know if I can make it tonight."

"Sure you can," Angela protested, a smirk crossing her full lips. "And you know you want to. Quit bein' so domesticated and get yourself out there." Her brows wiggled. "At least have _some_ fun before people start classifying ya as a spinster."

Ella pursed her lips, ignoring the insult as she considered the thought of going. She wondered if it was worth it, or if she would see Dally there, or if he would pay any attention to her if she did run into him. With a sigh, she offered a defeated look to Angela, wondering how the fourteen year old girl was so observant at such a young age, or rather, how she was so awfully . . . precocious.

Angela trailed on, though, leaving Ella to finish off her cigarette in silence. "Ya know, things have calmed down quite a bit, so I think it's safe, walkin' an' all." She crushed her own cigarette between the gravel and her heel. "Tim ain't been havin' any trouble with the Kings, so—"

"I know," Ella commented, tone solemn. "I heard from Evie that he and Dallas were hauled in because of some misshape downtown a week or so ago." Which was why he had hid out in her room that night, she thought to herself. Evie had learned from Steve that one of Tim's boys had tossed him under the bus, which was why Dallas had been picked up by the cops a few days back. Ella remembered how worried she'd been, wondering what happened and all, but she was relieved to find out that he wasn't exactly in trouble for anything . . . this time. "I'm glad things have calmed down."

"So, you'll come tonight, then, right?" She sounded hopeful. "You know you want to."

Ella's shoulders drooped. "Oh, fine," she eventually agreed. "But only for a little while."

The black-haired teen's grin seemed to stretch. But before she could respond, the two of them were graced by the presence of Two-Bit Mathews, the red-headed greaser approaching them with a wide smile, a slight twinkle in his gray orbs. Ella couldn't help but smile back, as Two-Bit just seemed to have that effect on most people—his goofiness was impossibly irresistible. He swaggered up to them, winking once at Angela just to get under the girl's skin, but she merely rolled her eyes in return.

"Howdy, ladies," he greeted, nodding once to Ella. "Mighty hot to be standin' out here, huh?"

Angela snorted. "Yeah, well, it ain't like there's any air conditioning 'round here." Her cynical glare roamed over the older teen. "What are you even doin' here?"

"Well, now," he replied, cocking an eyebrow in her direction, "I was under the assumption that we was friends, Miss Shepard." He chuckled. "But I suppose you ain't ever been the friendly type anyway." He shook his head, turning to Ella. "So, what's this I'm hearin' about a party?"

Ella shrugged. "Matt Br—"

"You're not invited, Mathews," Angela interrupted, crossing her thin arms.

But Two-Bit was ignoring her, purposely turning his body away from her. "Matt Brown, yeah? I heard somethin' about that from"—His gaze quickly flickered to Angela's petite frame—"Mr. Tim Shepard himself. Now ain't that something?" An amused look pressed on his face. "See, dearest Angel, I was already invited, and guess what?" He winked once at Ella. "I think I might show up. You gon' fancy me a dance, hunny?"

Angela groaned, low and long. "Bad enough Curly's gotta be goin', too."

"Hey, that's what happens with siblings," Two-Bit remarked, tone audible with amusement. "I'm just glad my own kid sister is too young for . . . anything."

Ella watched the scene with a small smile, finding the facade of resentment between Two-Bit and Angela to be quite humorous. But for a moment, she sympathized with Angela, wondering just how awful it would be to attend a party with one of your siblings, especially one of your older brothers, good Lord. But then her gaze trailed on to Two-Bit, surprised that he had a little sister. Then again, she really didn't know a whole lot about him, but she never really paid attention, either. She figured that his sister had to be quite young, and she grinned in spite of herself at the thought of Two-Bit being an older brother—quite different from Tim and Curly, she assumed.

"Yeah, well," Angela continued on leisurely, "I'm still gonna be there, and so will Ella."

At the mention of her name, Ella bit her lip. "Yeah, but only for a little while."

"Good to see you've been making yourself more sociable there," Two-Bit responded, and then tipped his invisible hat with a genuine grin. "I guess I'll be seein' y'all tonight, then." He gave Ella a mocking look before walking away. "Just don't go tryin' to steal the alcohol from anyone, Miss Law Abider."

Ella inwardly cringed, having forgotten about that day in the store when she wouldn't allow Two-Bit to purchase beer. Even though he was grinning on the outside, she knew that he definitely hadn't forgotten about it, and while he probably didn't hate her or dislike her, she knew where he stood, and for some reason, remembering that day regarding her choices, she felt . . . disappointed.

* * *

Ponyboy entered the house, immediately pulling his shirt off and tossing it in the laundry basket. He made a face at the growing pile on the floor in front of the washer, figuring that he ought to get started on it soon, his shirt seeming to nag at him from where he'd tossed it. Boy howdy, but it sure was hot out that day, and even though the fifteen-year-old was trying to get back in shape for track, he knew that he really needed to quit smoking so much. Glory, but just that thought alone caused Darry's face to appear in his mind, and he internally grimaced.

Speaking of his oldest brother, Darry walked in through the back door, a tired look plastering his face, one Ponyboy was beginning to dread seeing. His brother didn't deserve to be working himself gray at only twenty-one years old—it wasn't fair, but then again, nothing else ever seemed to be fair.

"You were gone for quite a while, little colt," Darry remarked, and even though his voice was a bit cool, he kept his face neutral. "How was your run? It's pretty hot out, huh?"

The younger boy nodded. "Wasn't too bad," he answered, making his way inside the kitchen to fill a glass with water. Golly, he was thirsty alright, his mouth terribly dry. "I circled the park and then ran downtown. I came across Curly Shepard, too."

Darry cleared his throat. He wasn't exactly a fan of Curly Shepard, or his older brother, but he and Tim respected one another, got along alright, and so long as Curly wasn't roping Ponyboy into anything, anything meaning anything _illegal_ , he assumed he didn't have much to worry about. Still, remembering those few months ago when Pony had told him that he'd gone with Curly to a party plagued the back of his thoughts. He told himself numerous times that it didn't bother him none, that Ponyboy was growing up, and was bound to rebel here and there, but he couldn't help but worry.

"Oh," he replied, trying to sound like he wasn't displeased. "What'd he have to say?"

Ponyboy shrugged. "Nothing much. Told me that there was a party at Matt Brown's house later tonight, wanted to know if me or Soda were gonna be there, but—" He glanced quickly at Darry—"I told him that I already had plans."

"Do you?" came the quick inquiry, and the teen shrugged while taking a large gulp of water.

"Not really, but maybe I'll go to the Nightly Double or something," he answered, inhaling deeply. "I don't know, but I won't be at any party, Darry. You don't gotta worry about that."

Darry stared in awe at his youngest brother if but for a moment, wondering when he had started to sound so grown up. Hell, he thought with amusement, he was beginning to sound a little more like Sodapop every day. Pretty soon, he was gonna have girls swarming around him with hopeful thoughts of being asked out. Darry could have laughed at the thought alone—if only their father could be there to see this . . .

"I ain't worried," he expertly lied, and shot him a rare grin. "Must be quite the bummer with school starting in only a few weeks."

Ponyboy groaned, not concealing his annoyance. Glory, but he felt like he'd only just gotten out of that place, that Summer had just begun, and here Darry was telling him that there were only a few measly weeks left until he started his junior year. Glory, he thought, but he had only turned fifteen a few weeks ago, and he was already a junior in high school. Well, he grinned, that was the thing about being put up a grade—always being the youngest in your class. Oh well. Ponyboy had always been rather proud of himself, and he was glad to have been able to skip a grade. School wasn't hard to him, never had been, either, and he supposed that he was a lot like Darry that way.

Placing his glass in the sink, he said, "Don't remind me."

But Darry was all but grinning. "I'm just sayin'. Besides, you still have Two-Bit to keep you company."

As if the words alone had pierced through his body, Ponyboy froze, his face paling. It seemed so weird to consider the fact that come this time next year, he would be the only one left in their group to still be in school, considering that Two-Bit passed his senior year. Still, Ponyboy wondered where the time had gone—were they all really so grown up? Golly . . .

However, before he could respond, Darry was already onto another topic, making his way out into the living room. "You talk to Dally yet?"

"Yeah," he answered lowly. "He ain't said anything to me about my book. I gave it to him to read, and well . . . hell, Darry, I don't even know if he started reading it or not."

Darry's eyes seemed to broaden. "You let him read it?"

The younger boy pursed his lips. "I thought I should, considering that . . . well, since he's . . . you know." He paused for only a moment before continuing. "You know, Darry, I think it might do him some good. I don't think he ever . . . really grieved or anything, and I'm thinkin' that the book might be able to help him out, give him some kinda closure." A sigh. "I ain't sure that it will, but I hope it does. Dally deserves something, too."

Darry nodded thoughtfully. "I was just surprised is all, Ponyboy. I think all of us have been a little worried about him, not that he wants any of us doin' that—"

"Because he can't . . . accept it."

And the oldest Curtis brother went silent, though he agreed with his brother wholeheartedly. Like Pony, he too hoped that the book could help find him some form of peace. Darry was never quite certain that Dallas had moved on from what happened nearly a year ago, and while he and the rest of their friends had expressed concern various times during those past months, he knew as well as Ponyboy that none of them would ever admit it out loud, lest they drive the towheaded hood further away. Ponyboy was right . . . there was a chance that Dallas could find solace in his book.

* * *

Ella frowned as she entered Matt Brown's house, immediately feeling out of place. There were a bunch of people crowded around, music blaring in the background as smoke wafted into her nostrils. Oh, boy, why had she ever agreed to come here in the first place? Oh, right, she thought with a scowl, because Angela had begged her to. Realistically, she knew that she didn't _have_ to come, but she never did anything without dismissing herself, and quite frankly, she was beginning to dread her decision.

"Ella!"

The brown-haired girl turned with a jerk, feigning a smile at the sight of Angela. Oh, glory, but how she wished Evie would have accompanied her instead of spending the night with Steve and doing God only knows what. A blush tinted her cheek at the mere thought of it, and she sympathized, knowing that her friend hadn't had any real alone time with her boyfriend in quite a while.

"Hi, Angela," she replied, greeting the younger girl eagerly. Hell, she didn't want to be standing there alone like an idiot. "What's up?"

She shrugged, and as she spoke, the liquor on her breath clouded Ella's senses. "Nothin' really." She took in the older girl's attire, wondering if she ever displayed anything but sheer modesty. "You don't have any outfits for a party, huh?"

Ella's face contorted into utter embarrassment. "I— Well, I mean, I guess I didn't think—"

Angela's lips pursed, studying Ella's dark capris and tied up blouse that had only one extra button undone, hardly showing off any skin. Next to Angela's short shorts and tighter blouse, Ella looked like she was dressed rather casually. But at least she had shown up, Angela thought with amusement, nun attire and all.

"Well let's go outside," she suggested, grabbing her arm. "It's too stuffy in here."

Ella allowed Angela to pull her along, figuring that nobody would really judge her less skimpy outfit in the dark. As they walked along, Angela grabbed her a drink, telling her to loosen up a little and enjoy herself for once, and without trying to humiliate herself anymore for the night, she downed the shot in one fluid motion, before eagerly reaching for another and doing the same thing.

Hell, she thought, but Evie would be hysterical if she was witnessing this.

The duo made their way out into the night air, and Ella instantly relaxed as Angela walked her around to meet different people. There was a small fire pit; the smell of burning wood and whatever else was being tossed into it comforted Ella, and she wasn't sure if it was the alcohol running smoothly in her system or if she was just able to ease up that much. Surprisingly, it wasn't too hot out, and Ella was more than thankful for that. Good Lord. Even though she had spent less time on her hair than usual, she was afraid that it would only look worse in the night humidity, but it had cooled off drastically, and there was a slight breeze grazing her skin.

After a while, Angela had left Ella alone to sit by the fire, casually sipping at her beer. She felt herself loosening up quite a bit, her body feeling lighter and more at ease as she watched everyone else around her. They were dancing, chit chatting, making-out, or whatever else, and Ella found herself quietly giggling as she observed her surroundings.

Somebody sat down beside her, though, and her euphoric state was briefly interrupted. She turned her head ever so slowly, wondering if she had really drank so much that she felt almost airy, the nerves in her face and arms somehow disappearing. Good gosh, but the last time she had really gotten tipsy was with Craig, and that was quite a while back. Ella couldn't exactly remember, and right then, she didn't even want to think about her ex-boyfriend . . . or anything really.

"You here by yourself?"

Ella flushed. "No, I'm . . . I'm here with a friend."

The boy grinned. "Yeah, and which friend is that?" He leaned forward, eyes almost glazed over from being intoxicated. "You been sittin' here by your lonesome for a while."

"Angela Shepard," she answered breathlessly. "I'm here with Angela." And the more she stared at him, the more she realized that he looked oddly familiar. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, dark complexion . . . But she was unable to place him. "Have we met?" she decided to ask, brows pressing together.

He was smiling, a lethal look in his orbs. "Angela's my sister," he said. "And hell, doll, I ain't sure that we've met before, but I doubt I'd forget a face like yours." Ella wasn't sure if the expression he made next was supposed to be assuring or not. "I'm Curly."

For a second, the older teen felt like her jaw spilled open. No wonder he looked familiar, she thought, a mental image of Tim flashing through her mind. Curly was the spitting image of his older brother, with a slightly more boyish face. But she could see the resemblance quite clearly then—all three of the Shepard siblings shared the same dark curly hair, dark blue eyes, and darker complexions. And Curly was a smaller Tim, reckless behavior, suave and rugged demeanor, and all.

"Ella," she replied in a quiet voice. "Ella Mitchell."

"Really?" he questioned, and, without the slightest bit of shame, lit a joint. "I've heard about you." He inhaled slowly, leaning back in the chair some. "You tutored Winston, huh?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

Curly wasn't sure why he found this girl somewhat amusing, as if talking to her was completely comical in itself. Hell, she certainly wasn't the type of company Angela usually kept around as a friend, nor was she the kind who would stand up to Dallas Winston, or even speak to his brother so casually, well from what he'd heard anyway. She looked very uptight, her face serious and firm, as if she didn't know how to let loose or have any fun. Curly inwardly wondered what it would take to wipe that authoritative expression off her face and have her spread her legs instead. Maybe then she wouldn't look so . . . unpleasant.

"So," he began, intentionally eyeing her slowly, "Angela and you are friends, huh? How come I ain't ever seen you around?"

"Well," came the hesitant response, "I mean, we're not exactly close, I guess." Her lips pursed as she tried to ignore the way Curly was staring at her, as if he was about to pounce at her or something. "We really didn't start talking until just a few weeks ago."

Curly edged closer, his face moving within a few inches of hers. "You should come by some time, doll. I'd really like to get to know ya better." His voice was dropping with every word, and Ella felt her eyes getting wider as she suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Usually, Angel's friends are . . . well, I suppose they _could_ be my type, but I think you'd be a fun challenge." His hand reached out to swipe her cheek, and he grinned all the more. "How 'bout that? You come by and see me some time . . ."

"Or how about you find a broad your own age, Shepard?"

Both Ella and Curly jumped as Dallas rounded the side of Curly's chair, coming into view with a scowl on his face, the light of the fire making him almost look more dangerous than ever. Good Lord, Ella thought, but the way his white hair stood out with his angular and pointed face, icy eyes blazing darker in the dim lighting . . . he could have been the devil himself.

Curly wrinkled his nose. "You stay outta this, Winston, ya hear?" His eyes shot back to Ella. "Me an' Ella here were only having a nice conversation, weren't we, doll?" And when Ella nodded in affirmation to save a headache, Curly continued. "This ain't none of your business, so go back to whatever you was doin'."

Dallas was grounding his teeth. "Well, Ella and I got business of our own, so you can go take a hike."

It only took a few seconds before Curly reeled back, knocking the chair over in the process as he pointed a finger in the blond's direction. "Fuck you, Winston," he savagely roared, and with a sneer that made Ella cringe, he stalked away, flicking his joint and shoving his hands inside his pockets. He didn't come back, either.

But Ella didn't have a chance to react before Dallas's grip was tightly enclosed around her forearm as he pulled her up and out of the chair. "The hell do you think yer doin', girl?"

The girl's eyes were broad, a frightened expression looming around inside them. "Nothing." And then she ground her teeth. "Could you let me go, Dallas? You're hurting me." And only when he released her, roughly though it was, did she continue speaking. "What was that?"

"What was what, huh?" he returned, face turning stony. "What? You keep company like Curly Shepard now, girl? You trying to get yourself . . . in trouble?" Before she could answer, he glowered as he went on. "You ought to know better than to go around speaking to guys like him. Don't you think?" He ran a hand through his hair. "Christ almighty . . ."

But Ella could only stare at him. This was another side, she noticed, one she had never seen before, and she had seen many sides of the blond-headed hood before, but this . . . this was different. It was as if she were suddenly remembering Ponyboy's book, how he had described Dallas the night that he and Johnny and come to him after the murder—he was oddly . . . protective, authoritative, and Ella wasn't sure what to think of that.

"I . . . didn't realize," she responded, blinking away the feeling of dizziness. "I came with Angela, I was just sitting there, and—" And then she glared at him. "But what business of it is yours?" Her voice had turned accusatory. "We were just talking." Even though he had creeped her out, she thought to herself.

"Yeah, well, talkin' to girls ain't just talkin' to Curly Shepard, sweets," he stated, tone gruff. "And you shouldn't be here, either. This ain't the place for you."

Ella's mouth fell, a shocked look on her face. "I'm not a child, Dallas. And you are _not_ my keeper." She sighed. "Look, I get that you're trying to be . . ." And then she shook her head. "Like I said, Angela asked me to come, so I showed up, alright? But that doesn't mean that you can tell me what to do."

Dallas smirked, a bitter look following it. "Well, it'd do ya good to know that she took off with Dean Mathis, so you've been sitting there like a dumbass waitin' for nothin'."

"She left?" The words seemed to tumble out of her mouth on their own accord, and suddenly, Ella felt sick. She wasn't exactly mad, as she and Angela hadn't shown up together, but that wasn't the point. She should've had _some_ decency to let her know that she was leaving. "I didn't know." But Ella was ready to go, to just leave. The party hadn't been that much fun anyway, well the fact that she'd gotten out for a while was nice and all, but— She suddenly felt nauseous, as if whatever she'd downed earlier, followed by the prodigious amount of alcohol she'd consumed that night, was finally hitting. "I think I'm gonna head home."

"Wait a second," he called out, grabbing her arm and jerking her back around. "You ain't drivin'." His lips thinned as he stared at her. "You're drunk."

Ella frowned. "I'm not drunk." Not really, she thought miserably. Just . . . tipsy.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, and then his face turned serious. "Give me the keys."

Deciding not to argue, Ella begrudgingly handed him the keys to her mother's Impala, allowing him to lead her to the car without so much of an inclination hinting at resentment. The feeling of his hand enclosed around her arm was making her feel more heated than she already was from drinking, and as she climbed into the passenger seat beside him moments after that, she felt her stomach fluttering around from being in such a close proximity to him. Her bottom lip was running through her teeth as she tried to stare at the road ahead while he drove her back to her house, her heart pounding as her lower gut tingled with sensations that seemed to make every one of her senses become more and more heightened with each passing second.

The ride was silent, and as Dallas drove, Ella was becoming more dizzy. Holy cow, she thought, but she had been fine several minutes earlier. She mentally blamed her sickness on Dallas—he made her heart beat more rapidly, made her body heat up, and gosh, but just thinking about him made her thighs squeeze as her belly tingled, the hairs on her arms and neck standing at the thoughts that crossed her mind. God almighty, but what was wrong with her?

"Pull over," she cried out, fingers gripping around the handle as her other hand covered her mouth.

Dallas didn't need to be asked twice. With one quick glance at the girl next to him, he hit the brakes and pulled off on the side of the road, watching as Ella practically fell out heaving. It took only a few seconds before she was spilling her guts, her breathing heavy as little groans emerged from her throat, her one arm wrapped around her middle. Yeah, not drunk my ass, he thought to himself, grounding his teeth. Truthfully, Dallas wouldn't give two shits about anyone besides himself, but he really didn't want to leave Ella around the likes of Curly Shepard, either—and not only that, but he didn't want to leave her by her lonesome at that place anyway. He'd seen Angela before, and he knew from her that Ella had come, so when he'd seen her leaving with Dean Mathis, he figured he ought to find his former dopey tutor and let her know that Angela had left.

He hadn't expected to walk up on Angela's idiot brother putting the moves on Ella, who appeared to be more intoxicated than what he'd realized. It was almost funny to think that she was drunk and puking her guts up beside him right then, as he had always considered her too much of a goody-two-shoes. But for some unfathomable reason, drunk Ella wasn't all that . . . entertaining, either.

The brown-haired girl plopped back into the passenger's seat a few minutes later, closing the door in a slow fashion, both of her hands covering her face as she leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"You good?" Dallas asked impatiently, not sparing her a glance. "I don't need you getting sick on me."

Ella groaned. "Just drive."

He continued on to her house, his eyes sliding in her direction every so often. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, and only when he pulled up in front of her property did he somewhat relax. He really didn't want to walk the girl to the door, make sure she got in and all that, but Ella looked like she was about to keel over at any second.

"Hey," he bit out, giving her shoulder a shake. "You gon' be sick again?"

Ella shook her head. "No, I just—" A pause. "I'll be fine. I just . . . need a minute. You don't have to stay and wait."

"Who said I was going to?"

She sighed, shoulders dropping. But Dallas didn't move, and neither did she, and the two of them sat in silence, the only sound being their breathing. When she was feeling a bit more stable, Ella exhaled, removing her hands from her face and resting her body back against the seat, a worn expression on her face as she stared straight ahead. Her gaze drifted onto the hood beside her, and it was then that she realized just how much she . . . wanted him. Glory, but she knew she liked him—hated herself for it, too—but right then, she didn't care, she just wanted to reach out and touch him, run the tips of her fingers over his . . . She wanted to know how her hand would feel in his, know what it would be like if he kissed her— _really_ kissed her . . .

And she realized that after all the time they had spent together, _all that time_ , she hardly knew anything about him. She had seen nearly all the sides of him, knew how awful he could be, knew how unstable he was, and she knew the little things, like he'd come from New York, or lived there at least, and that he liked rodeos and jockeying . . . But she wanted more. She wanted to know _him_.

"Dallas," she said, her voice coming out soft. "What's your favorite color?"

The blond's face twisted. "What the hell?" he said, shooting her an odd look. "You really that out of it, girl?" He shook his head at her, mumbling under his breath as he went to push the driver's side door open, ready to bail.

"Wait," she called, her hand wrapping around his arm and attempting to pull him back. The feeling alone caused a jolt to surge through her body, and she suddenly felt everything at once, before deciding that touching him was a stupid move. "You didn't answer."

Rolling his eyes, Dallas thought that he could slug this broad. Jesus Christ, but drunk Ella was more of a sap than Sodapop, and a sappy overemotional chick was the last thing he wanted to deal with. Fuck. But he decided to humor her, so long as it would make her shut up and get inside her house so he could get outta there.

"Dunno," he said, clearly aggravated. "The sky . . . the way it is now. You happy?" And then he quickly shuffled out of the car before making his way over to her side and pulling the door open. "C'mon," he instructed, reaching in to get her out quicker.

"So, night blue," she crooned once she was out. And then her legs buckled, causing her to lean onto the car for support. "Are you reading Ponyboy's book?"

"What's it to ya?"

A sigh. "Do you always answer questions with questions?"

His teeth grounded. "You always let assholes push you 'round at work?"

She hardly noticed that he was reaching his arm around to support her frame, guiding her up the gravel driveway and to her porch. The walk was slow as she continued to ask him multiple questions, ones which he barely responded to. Hell, but he had regretted his decision of driving her home, wishing he had just left her at the fucking party when he had the chance. He scowled all the more, hoisting her up and carrying her up the stairs so she didn't accidentally fall and break her fucking neck, not that he'd give a shit, but still . . .

"C'mon, stupid," he demanded, giving her a shove toward the door. "I hope you can make it to yer room, sweets." He sneered. "'Cause I ain't stayin'."

Ella nodded, one hand resting on her forehead. "Yeah, just . . . Dallas?"

"What now?" he barked, more pissed than before.

Her face, though already flushed, turned a shade. "Remember when I asked you what New York was like?"

"What about it?"

"Do you miss it?"

The question caught him off guard, but he managed a harsh look anyway. "I don't miss nothin', girl, and don't ask me anything else about that shit, or any-fucking-thing." His nose scrunched as he glared at her petite frame for a second too long. "Git outta here, would ya? Go inside."

Not waiting for a response, he shook his head and turned on his heel, making his way off of her property. Only when he'd heard the door slam did he turn back on the road to wait. With an annoyed look on his face, his eyes stared in the direction of her bedroom window, and only when he saw the light flicker on did he continue on his way.

One day, he was going to get out of that town. He didn't know where the hell he was going, or what he would do, but he was going to leave.

 _In the city, oh, oh_

 _In the city_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! Y'all are just too wonderful! :3**


	12. Don't Get Too Close

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Imagine Dragons owns "Demons."**

* * *

 _Your eyes, they shine so bright_

 _I want to save their light_

 _I can't escape this now_

 _Unless you show me how_

 **August 5, 1966**

"Well, I'm surprised," Evie said, shaking her head as she stuffed another fry into her mouth. "I didn't know Dallas even had an ounce of chivalry in him."

Ella sighed, picking at her half-eaten burger. "I feel like such a louse. I can't believe I was dumb enough to let Angela talk me into going to that party in the first place." Golly, she thought, but just the reminder of Tuesday night was a headache alone. She remembered waking up Wednesday morning with one helluva hangover, which was followed by her calling out of work for the day. Ginger hadn't been happy with her Thursday, either, and Ella was just sick of it all. To make matters worse, her mother hadn't been too thrilled to find her daughter suffering a hangover, so Ella had been on her shit list as well. "I just . . . I'm so stupid."

"You can say that again," Evie replied. "I mean, I know I do stupid shit here and there, but Jesus H. Christ, Ella, I thought _you_ of all people had more sense." She rolled her eyes then. "Well, I'll give Dally this much: at least he came when he did, lest you end up with another issue on your plate, one called Curly Shepard."

"What's so bad about him anyway?"

Both Ella's and Evie's heads snapped in Mary's direction, the younger girl staying quiet throughout the majority of the conversation until just then. But Ella remained silent while Evie went on to explain exactly who Curly Shepard was, and what he was like, and who his brother was ...etc. Ella hardly listened while her friends talked, a headache forming at the memory of that godawful party. Hell, it wasn't even the party itself—it was Dallas Winston she was worried about. Golly, but she could barely recall him helping her out of the car and walking her to her front door. She had been so, so stupid! And there was nobody to blame but herself.

". . . right, Ella?"

The brown-haired girl's chin jerked up as she glanced in the direction of Evie, who was seated beside her in the booth. "Oh, yeah," she mumbled out, still feeling sorry for herself. "Whatever you say, Evie."

Evie's brows pressed together as she stared at her older friend. "Are you sure you ain't comin' down with somethin', El? You've been acting . . . strange." And then she looked at her closer. "Is your mom doin' well?"

"No, I'm good," she answered quickly, following that her mother was doing fine, too. "I think I'm just worn out." Her body seemed to deflate as she leaned forward on the table. "I went into work at six this morning, and Ginger has me on eight hour shifts, five days a week, which is what I wanted." She licked her lips. "The wages are good, and with my mom being back to work and all, the bills are getting paid off. But I just . . . I know it's silly, but I'm—"

"Exhausted?" Evie guessed as Mary offered her a sympathetic look. "Hell, maybe you should—"

"I can't take off another day," Ella interrupted. "I took off Wednesday due to a hangover." Her cheeks tinted at the thought. "I can't afford to take off anyway—I need the money."

Mary spoke up, then. "How many hours do you work a week?"

Ella shrugged. "Forty at the laundromat, and with the grocery store"—She did the math in her head—"it's between fifty two and fifty six altogether."

Evie's eyes broadened. "Hell, I only work . . . twenty four if I'm lucky."

Mary was going to say that she didn't work at all, but decided better of it. Aunt Vera thought that it was unorthodox for a "lady" to have to work anyway, and she knew that she would be scolded if she so much as approached her aunt with the idea of entering the work force. But it wouldn't matter in her situation anyway, because Aunt Vera was quite well off, and Mary wouldn't ever _have_ to work—she was set for life so long as she followed her aunt's every instruction and devised plan for her potential future. But listening to Ella and Evie talk about working, and how hard it was for them, made the younger teen feel bad, and then her thoughts shifted to Soda, making her feel worse.

Casually taking a sip of her Pepsi, the dark-haired girl mulled over her thoughts. Her eyes drifted about the restaurant Evie had suggested they go for a— She wasn't sure if it was a very late lunch or incredibly early supper, considering it was two hours shy of the dinner hour. Besides, Ella had to leave to go to work at the store at four, and Evie had a shift at the hospital, which left Mary to head home. Good Lord, but Aunt Vera would surely have a cow if she wasn't home for supper.

Ella's voice pulled her from her thoughts. ". . . and Jan told me that Mr. Hanley has decreased my hours even more, and I'm already down to a measly six, which doesn't count Friday evenings."

Evie looked thoughtful. "Probably just sour 'cause you ain't a full time employee no more." She dunked another fry into her small cup of ketchup, coating it all before chowing away. "Maybe you ought to say something. Hell, I would. But, then again, you _are_ getting the extra dough, even with the cut back hours, ya know?"

"Yeah," the brown-haired girl agreed, though she sounded bummed out. "You're right."

"So, what time are you working to tonight?"

"Nine."

Evie's brow raised in surprise. "Five hours? That's shit alright. You used to close, didn't ya?"

A nod. "Yeah, _used_ to. But it's only a two hour difference anyway."

Neither Evie or Mary responded, but they shared a concerned look before their gazes trailed over to Ella, who was too busy staring at her chocolate milkshake to notice. All three girls were sharing the same thought, though, but none of them spoke it out loud.

* * *

By default, Dallas wasn't a patient guy—far from it—so waiting for Dusty Lewis's one week sentence at Tulsa County Jail to end was almost . . . challenging. Dallas wanted to pound this guy's face in for ratting out Tim and himself, which almost cost him his probation. That would be all he fucking needed, to end up behind bars for five years. He still had several months left before he was completely "free" of that probation, and ol' Henderson had been sure to remind him of that fact. Not that Dallas gave a shit, because he didn't, which is why he was set on beating the shit out of Lewis—fucker.

Tim already had a bone to pick with the other greaser, but Dally didn't care. What he wanted, he got, and right then, he wanted Dusty's face in the dirt. Glory, but didn't anyone know the meaning of loyalty or sticking together anymore? What gang member went and threw another under the boss so carelessly, or rather, without any shame? What the fuck happened to the days of old? The more the towheaded teen thought about it, the angrier he got, which wasn't a good combination with his already fueled temper.

The judge had been real lenient with Dusty Lewis, too, only giving him a week to serve because he had struck a bargain with the cops—which was giving out Tim's and his names. Oh, a week sentence might have been a good deal to Dusty, but it was a nice little favor to Dallas—and Tim—because it meant having him out on the streets sooner, and the sooner the better. It was about time Dallas settled the score with that little prick.

So he waited, tracking down the rat at the bowling alley. He hadn't been there too long, either, as Dusty apparently only showed up to sell some dope to a younger group of kids behind the building. Dallas had been careful, scoping the area out and watching the scene with intrigue. Oh, wasn't this something, he thought to himself, a grim smile spreading on his lips. Just wait until Shepard got a load of this shit. All this time they had been going after the Brumly Boys when Dusty was playing double-agent. Well, son-of-a-bitch. But Dallas wanted to know more—he wanted to know who this asshole was working for, and for what price. Dammit. Well, fucking Tim had always been gullible, not that he was real stupid or nothin', Dallas thought.

He continued to watch Dusty in action, offering two dime-bags worth of shit to three— They looked like junior high kids, before taking a wad of folded bills, stuffing it in his pocket, and scurrying away, looking over his shoulder a few times before tucking his head down. What he didn't know was that Dallas was a few paces behind him, a plan formulating in his head. Yeah, he was going to cut through the side alley and intentionally run into Dusty—that would take him by surprise for sure, and Dallas could feel a sinister grin on his mouth the more he thought about it. He knew the downtown area quite well, and he knew exactly where he and Dusty would end up within a few minutes.

So he watched Dusty round the corner up ahead, before turning to head through the narrow alleyway between two dilapidated buildings and hopping the fence at the end to cut through the side road to meet Dusty at the other end. And he didn't wait that long, for just as he reached the walkway, Dusty approached the corner of the building. He didn't expect to be grabbed and thrown up against the side of the building opposite himself, nor did he expect to have Dallas Winston's face in his own.

"Long time, no see, pal," Dallas bit out, slamming the smaller teen's head back into the brick exterior with no remorse. "I've been waiting to run into you, and ain't it somethin', us seein' one another after your little business meeting a few blocks back?"

Dusty's eyes widened. "You didn't get in any trouble, man—"

"Ain't the point, scumbag," came the harsh response. "You ratted Tim and me out, you little prick, and you set us up that night with Brumly." He sneered. "Who the fuck are you working for?"

When Dusty didn't answer, he received a solid fist to his face, his jaw snapping at the impact. Dallas wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush, and he wanted to know who this fucker was working for and for what price. It was obvious now that Shepard's crew had been set up—there wasn't any real dealings going on, except for what Brumly got roped into, and Dallas had a sneaking suspicion that Daxon Jones wasn't involved as much as he and Tim assumed. But that still left Dusty Lewis. And Dally had no inclination who the bastard was tied to.

And he was growing more and more impatient. Dusty wouldn't answer him, even after he kneed him in the gut and cracked his nose, and cussed him out real good. Only when the smaller boy dropped to the pavement like a sack of potatoes did the blond quit roughing him up. His eyes were narrowed, brows pressed together as his lips thinned into a tight line. He was hacked off because he didn't get the answers he needed, but at least he had gathered _some_ information, which was of great importance.

For good measure, though, he gave Dusty another swift kick to the abdomen, before beating it out of there, leaving the kid a bloodied pulp in the middle of the alleyway. Besides, he had other things to attend to, like getting prepped for the rodeo that night.

* * *

Ella made her way into the store, the cool air touching her skin the moment she stepped through the glass doors. It wasn't terribly hot out, but it was hot enough, and the walk from the Dingo was a few blocks. Since her mother worked at the antique shop that morning, Ella didn't have the car—her mother had to drop her off at the laundromat, and then she would pick her up before she went to work at the bar that night. The girl sighed, before greeting Jan with a grin, who offered her one back as she made her way out of the break room.

"Hot out there?" Jan asked, and Ella nodded.

"Not as hot as it's been, but darn close to it," she answered casually. She eyed the schedule pinned on the wall where the employees punched in, eyebrows furrowing together. That's odd, she thought . . . she was supposed to be on until nine, not eight. "Was the schedule changed?" she inquired, glancing back at Jan with a skeptical expression.

"Not that I know of, hunny," she replied, stepping over to look at it. "Why?"

"Well, I was originally on until nine tonight, and now it says eight." Ella remembered seeing that last Sunday when the schedule was written up. Or had she mistaken? She was sure she hadn't, but with everything going on in the past week, perhaps she had misread.

"Hmm." Jan placed her hands on her hips. "That's bizarre alright. You _were_ on until nine tonight."

But before Ella could respond, their boss, Mr. Hanley, entered the room, his gaze immediately landing on Ella, before he beckoned her to follow him. Jan's brows raised at the teen as she passed by her, and once she was out of the room, Jan glanced in the folder below to see if next week's schedule had been written up, a frown touching her lips when she realized that Ella's name wasn't listed in its usual spot.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hanley closed the door to his office once Ella was inside. "Take a seat, Miss Mitchell," he said, voice low but firm.

Ella was watching him with a concerned expression, wondering what was going on. "Mr. Hanley," she said, trying not to sound like she was worried or anything, "I noticed that my hours tonight were cut, and I was wondering why that is."

The man sat down at his makeshift desk, offering the girl a sympathetic look. "That's why I wanted to speak with you, Miss Mitchell." He sighed. "You see, you are one of my best employees, and you've been dedicated to this job for the past two and a half years. But I'm afraid that . . . since you've requested to become only part time, there's been . . ." He trailed on for a few minutes, leaving the girl to sit there with a dumbstruck facial expression. ". . . and Travis will be able to assume that position as well, so with that being said, Miss Mitchell, I'm afraid that I have to let you go."

The teen's face fell drastically as she digested the information. She was being labeled as someone who was crowding the schedule now all because she asked for a part time position while she worked full time at the laundromat. Ella didn't think that was fair in the least—she had always been very dedicated and devoted to her job, both of them, and to hear that she was potentially holding other employees up from becoming full time just because her hours were different than what they used to be was ridiculous to her, and she figured that Mr. Hanley was just fed up with "adding" her into the schedule one night a week for six hours, and weekend days for eight hours. With the laundromat, she worked forty hours five days a week, and originally with the store, two days and one night, she worked a total of sixty two hours in one full week. Then she had been cut to fifty six, and then fifty two . . . and now she knew why—Mr. Hanley had been preparing to let her go. Permanently.

After their conversation, Ella made her way out front to work her final four hours, feeling a mixture of angry, upset, and despondent.

* * *

Dallas always enjoyed the night rodeos; they were wild and crazed, and he felt practically right at home when things got like that—it made him feel alive. He and Buck had already entered in one of the competitions that was soon coming up, and he was eagerly awaiting that moment. Dallas always liked the crazier, or rougher, events, like bull riding, or bronc riding, or anything like that. Buck was already quite soused, his disposition becoming more competitive and daring, not that Dallas was complaining or anything—drunk Buck was easier to boss around.

Speaking of the lanky cowboy, Dally spotted him making his way over to where he was seated on the bar exterior of the ring, an ambitious expression plastering his face. Dallas was cocky, though, and he had chosen an ornery mustang as his pick of the night—he was confident that he could ride her before she bucked him off completely. Buck looked ever determined, though, a glint of intoxication making itself present in his glazed over irises.

"Show starts in ten," he said, voice slightly slurred.

Dallas grinned. "I'm goin' for the mustang, Buck, and I'm gon' win her."

The older cowboy seemed thoughtful. "She'd be worth a good amount, a real rodeo star."

"Somethin' like that," came the bland response, for Dallas had other plans. He'd always been rather good at training horses, even wild ones, and he had his eyes set on the ornery mustang he had spotted earlier in the evening, the one he was sure he could ride and win as his own. "Big star alright."

* * *

"What happened to Evie?" Soda asked, glancing over at Steve with a raised brow.

The older teen shrugged. "Said she was gonna pick Ella up from work, since she's got her old man's car now." His nose wrinkled. "I dunno what happened, but I guess Ella's hours got changed, so Evie offered to give her a ride home or whatever. I told her to meet us at the lot later tonight."

"Oh," Soda replied, moving in the stand beside Two-Bit. "Yeah, Mary's aunt wouldn't let her out tonight because she thinks she's gone out too many times in the past few nights, so . . ."

Steve gave him an odd look. "With you?" At his friend's nod of affirmation, his upper lip curled. "Ya know, from what you've been tellin' me about this aunt of hers, I'm startin' to think somethin' is mighty wrong with her, you know what I'm sayin'?"

The golden-haired teen nodded, frowning. "Yeah, I hear you, Steve. I just don't know what to think about her aunt, but she's . . . the real strict kind."

"Typical Soc family for you."

Even though the comment wasn't said with any form of indignance, it still bothered Soda some. Steve always had a rougher way of describing things, or he was just overly brazen, but usually, he didn't mean nothing by it—that was just Steve. But thinking about Mary and what Steve had said, Soda knew, deep down, that his friend was somewhat right. Mary came from a well background, didn't know the meaning of what it was like to struggle, and she certainly wouldn't know what to do if she ended up on his side of the tracks by her lonesome. She was different. Soda knew that, he'd known all along, but the sudden realization of it sinking in made him feel . . . bad. Perhaps none of his buddies would ever really accept Mary, but he liked her well enough, and he wanted to be with her. Golly, but even thinking about her made his heart beat that much faster.

"She ain't a Soc, Steve," he defended, but made sure he didn't sound hurt by the remark. "I told you, she don't even . . . understand the social class differences here." Not really, he thought to himself, as Aunt Vera hardly let her interact with anyone when she was younger.

Steve remained firm, but his face smoothed over just a little. "Whatever you say, Soda."

And then their conversation was lost to the night as the next event started, the bell ringing as the horses were released from the pen. Soda easily spotted Dally, mostly because Two-Bit was laughing away as he pointed at both Dally and Buck trying to contain a wild black mustang, who was kicking back and trying to run rampant. Soda watched the scene with a look that reflected sheer awe, and as Dallas was able to swiftly mount the horse—after being thrown down twice—he and the boys cheered, watching as Dallas directed the horse into a run, circling the ring a few times before it was announced that he and Buck had won.

* * *

Ella felt downright miserable, and telling Evie that she had lost her secondary backup job only made her feel worse than it had when she'd heard it from Mr. Hanley himself. Glory, but her shift felt like it'd gone by rather quickly, and Ella assumed it was because she had been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she barely paid attention to anything else all evening. Thank goodness Evie had been able to pick her up, lest she have to walk—not that walking was a big deal, but even though things had seemed to calm down, Ella didn't trust the streets at night.

Evie offered her a sympathetic look. "Gee, I'm sorry, El. I wish there was somethin' I could do, but—"

"No, it's fine," the older girl said, shaking her head. "I appreciate you listening to me rant like this when I'm sure you'd rather—"

"Hey." It was Evie's turn to interrupt. Coming to a stop in front of the vacant lot down the street from the Curtis's house, she cut the engine and swiftly glanced at her friend. "Listen here, Ella. I don't ever mind talkin' to you about anything, even if we're both ranting about . . . whatever." She smirked. "Hell, Lord knows I complained about enough shit to you."

Ella chuckled good-naturedly, before a sigh fell from her lips. "Thanks, Evie."

The glow of the fire was bright and illuminating as the two girls approached the scene. Only Two-Bit was there, along with Soda and Steve. Apparently, Ponyboy was hanging out with one of his friends from track, and Darry had gone to visit some old friends from high school at the bowling alley. Soda told Ella and Evie about the rodeo, how Dallas had won himself an ornery mustang in bronc riding, and he and Buck had taken her over to the stables. Ella felt proud for the towheaded hood, remembering the last time she had seen him compete in the events at the rodeo. Golly, he sure acted confident, the air around him filled with innate pride. But Ella knew. She knew that the rodeo was Dallas's stomping grounds, that he lived and breathed for it, and she figured that he was mighty glad that night.

While everyone chatted among themselves, Ella began to feel content, forgetting all about her awful night and how she'd been let go from the store. And it was only when Evie told her that Dallas might've been swinging by that she perked up even more. But then the lingering reminder of being an idiot drunk in front of him last Tuesday night surged through her mind, making her feel nervous. Her lips pursed as she considered leaving, but just as the thought crossed her mind, she realized that she was unfortunately too late, for the blond hood was making his way over. Ella wasn't sure how she knew that he was there, but something had caused her to look over her shoulder, and when she did, she was able to see his swaggering silhouette approaching their group from across the lot.

"Don't you know a party ain't a party unless I'm there?" he asked smugly, sitting on the old car seat next to Ella and reaching for a can of Bud.

Evie's voice rang out among the other four's quiet greetings. "I heard you won yourself a mustang. Too bad I missed it. I woulda bet on you."

Dallas smirked at her. "She's a wild one, that horse. Gave me an' Buck a bit of trouble getting her into that trailer." He sounded proud. "Hell, we could hardly git her into a stall, she wouldn't quit buckin', so we put her in the ring outside the barn so she can run around and not feel so closed up. I didn't think she would do well in a stall anyway, but Buck didn't want to hear it." He shook his head, taking a good swig of beer. "She ain't tamed enough."

"You gonna train her, Dally?" Soda inquired, sounding interested.

"Sure am," he answered ruefully. "She's my horse." An almost boyish look crossed his face, and Ella felt her cheeks beginning to flush. "Think I'll call her Artemis."

Ella's brows furrowed as she craned her neck to the side to see him better. "Why Artemis?"

"'Cause she's a wild one," he pointed out, and tossed his empty can across the field. "Ain't that the name of some Greek goddess or somethin' that looked over wild animals or whatever?"

The girl shrugged. "Well, she was the goddess of the hunt among other things, essentially."

Soda grinned. "I like it."

Ella smiled, too, and then the five teens moved onto another topic, talking into the night until Evie said that she had to be home before eleven. Two-Bit had decided to hitch a ride with her, since they only lived a block apart, and when Soda and Steve decided to leave, Ella announced that she ought to be heading out, too. The fire was dwindling out anyway, and it was becoming awfully buggy out. Ella was sure her arms would be covered in bites if she didn't get outta there soon. She said goodnight to the remaining trio, before heading out of the lot to walk back home. That was, until a voice called her name, causing her to stop and turn around, her cheeks tinting pink.

"You walkin' home, stupid?"

Ella shrugged, trying not to make eye contact with Dallas. "Well, yeah . . ." She licked her lips, keeping her focus on the side of his face. "Did you want somethin'?"

His shit-eating grin seemed to cut through her. "How was your Wednesday morning, sweets?" His voice was condescending. "Spend a lotta time getting sick?"

"Oh, shut up," she responded, turning on her heel and heading back to her house. "I don't want to ever talk about that night again, so I'd appreciate if you kept your . . . thoughts to yourself." She crossed her arms over her chest, calling over her shoulder, "Goodnight, Dallas." But she heard his footsteps behind her, and she groaned lightly, unsure if she was really annoyed or what. "Are you following me?"

In a few seconds, he was beside her again, their footsteps in synchronization. "You should know better than to walk the streets at night, you dope. It ain't exactly pleasant 'round this time, and you—" He looked her over carefully, just to spite her. "Well, who knows what would happen to you out here."

Ella's teeth grinded together. "Go to hell, hood."

"Already there, sweets," came the sarcastic remark. "Got myself a one-way ticket, probably a throne, too, but that's a whole 'nother story."

She rolled her eyes, but she was secretly soaking up the fact that he was walking with her. She hated the fact that she liked him so much, that she thought about him constantly, and whenever they were that close to each other, she had the sudden urge to want to kiss him, or to have him kiss her. It was gross, she told herself, and she was disgusting. She remembered that day back in December when he'd kissed her, but it wasn't nice—it was rough and lacked anything other than sheer mockery, and the thought made her inwardly cringe.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sure you have a lot of those." At his perplexed look, she smiled. "Stories, I mean. I bet you have a lot of them."

Dallas's nose wrinkled. "What's this sudden interest of yours with my past, girl?" He looked down at her, face twisted. "Thought I told you to quit bringing that shit up."

The brown-haired girl shrugged, her arms tightening together around her middle. "I guess I just . . . well, it's stupid, but you . . . you fascinate me. I suppose I just want to . . . know more about you." And she quickly added, "I've never been out of Tulsa before, but you've been. You lived in New York, and that had to be . . . interesting, I'm sure."

Yeah, interesting, he thought with a scoff. Because running the streets, looking over your shoulder every two seconds, making sure the same guy who said he was your buddy didn't cut your throat in the same breath, hiding under benches at night, eating scraps from the garbage for food, and getting real deeply involved with criminality was somehow fascinating. Ella was a strange broad, though, that was for certain, and he wasn't sure what to think of her. But then he realized that Ella didn't know any of that shit about him, about his past or the way he'd grown up, and he decided he wouldn't tell her none of that. He hadn't even told the boys, only the shit that was worth bragging about.

"Wasn't interesting," he responded.

"But you said it was wild." She stopped suddenly, turning to face him for the first time, blue eyes on his with pure curiosity. "Can't you tell me one thing . . . or one thing about you other than lying that your favorite color is night blue?" When he didn't respond at first, her shoulders slumped. "Okay, how about I tell something about me, then? And then you tell me one thing about yourself."

The blond gave her a stupefied look. "What the fuck is this? Twenty questions or somethin'?" But then, as her eyes turned solemn, he rolled his. "Whatever, so long as it makes you shut your trap faster."

Ella could have grinned, but decided not to. "My favorite color is purple."

"I hate this game already."

Her lips were curving upward. "I like a lot of sugar in my tea."

"I lived in New York for three years."

The two continued on, talking quietly among themselves all the way to Ella's house. Ella had told Dally about the store, and in return, he'd told her that he hadn't read any of Ponyboy's book passed the seventh chapter. The twenty or so minutes that past didn't even feel like it had been that long, and as they turned onto her street, Ella felt more than disappointed—she wanted to spend longer with Dallas, to hear more things about him, even if he wasn't really opening up to her or anything—not that she expected him to. Still, she liked this side of him, wanted to listen to him more and more, and she desperately wanted to suggest that they walk around the block once more before she had to go home. It would be fine, since she didn't have to get up for work tomorrow, either—she could finally sleep in a little.

She finished up with admitting that she was glad he had accompanied her home that night, offering him a genuine grin as she walked up the steps to her porch. Her mother wasn't home yet, but she would be within two hours. Ella wished that she was brave enough to ask Dallas to walk around once more, but she thought better of it.

"I think you're into me."

She jerked around, eyes broad as she looked at him standing two steps below her with a cocky expression on his face as his own eyes bore into hers, an almost impish glimmer in them. Ella felt her heart as it started to pound hardly in her chest, a knot forming in her stomach. She mentally swore to herself, wondering if she had been obvious. Had she let herself slip? Oh, no . . .

"What?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

Dallas moved up another step, leaning forward to intentionally stare into her burning eyes. "You heard me, sweets."

"I—" she went to say, but froze, her breathing getting heavier. "I mean, that's—"

But he didn't budge, didn't flinch, only stared at her. "What's the matter, sweets? Cat got your tongue suddenly?" He continued following her up the steps at a slow pace, enjoying the tormented flush on her cheeks and the clear shock evident in her enlarged irises. He smirked when she backed herself into the railing, her expression becoming more and more stricken as he leaned in, hands pressing on the rail on either side of her, blocking her between his arms. "Admit it . . . Ella."

At the sound of her name rolling off his tongue, their faces only an inch or two apart, Ella felt her stomach fluttering around, her knees trembling beneath her, and she kept her focus on the ground, desperately trying to ignore the feeling of his breath hitting her face and the intensity of his smoldering glare that seemed to look straight through her.

She shook her head, turning a little as his lips met her cheek, teasing her. "No," she said, unsure if any of this was even real. Her voice was breathy, her breathing hard. "No," she repeated. But she wanted this, she did, she wanted him to kiss her, so why was she suddenly so nervous? "You're—" She was going to tell him that he was blocking her way to the door, but froze when his hand reached up, turning her face to meet his. "Dally—"

"Look at me, Ella," he said sternly, voice gruff, gaze hardening at her squeezed eyes. His brows crinkled as he realized that had been the first time she had ever called him Dally, and his calloused hand brushed the side of her cheek as her eyes suddenly opened ever so slowly.

Ella didn't have time to process anything, and when his lips met hers, every nerve in her body seemed to come to life, her insides on fire as she slowly responded. Dallas wasn't as patient, though, and soon enough, he became a little greedy, his lips moving almost roughly against hers as her back pressed harder into the rail, his arm supporting her frame. And only when he slid his tongue into her mouth did she make a sound like a squeak, body jumping into overdrive as she tried to keep up with his movements.

Craig had never kissed her that way, never . . . put his hands on her like _that_. Oh sure, they had kissed plenty of times, tongued lightly and all that stuff, but Dallas was . . . he was _kissing_ her, _really_ kissing her, and he wasn't holding back. In the midst of being nervous, Ella was floating, but her Utopian state of mind was breached when she felt Dallas's hand kneading her chest. She immediately pulled back, lips parted as she moved away from him a little.

Dallas was staring at her, watching all of the emotions flash through her eyes, and then he realized that she hadn't been pulling his chain when she silently admitted that she'd never gone that far before. Hell, but he was surprised that she'd let him kiss her _that_ much, and oddly enough, he enjoyed himself. Ella was warm and soft, and she didn't smell like heavy smoke, or taste like alcohol. She smelled like some light and fruity perfume, and she tasted almost sweet, and he liked that about her. Looking at her then, though, he decided that he wanted more of her, and what he wanted, he got.

Goddamn, he thought to himself, but he never thought that he would want her— _never_ —but Christ almighty, she felt good, tasted good, and he wanted more of her. Hell, he considered with a smirk, but he wanted to fuck her, pop her little cherry, and with that thought in mind, he decided that he was gonna get her. She already liked him, that much was obvious, so "pursuing" her wouldn't be hard at all.

"Why did you do that?" she suddenly asked, breaking the silence between them.

He shrugged. "I wanted to."

Ella licked her lips. "Dallas"—So, it was Dallas again, he noted—"I . . . well, I don't know what to say, but—" She paused, looking back at him. "You're right. I do like you."

 _Bingo_.

"So, let me take you out some time, then," he replied casually.

Ella's jaw practically dropped. But she looked reluctant. She wasn't sure why, but her overwhelming emotions were nagging at her the longer she stared at him. She had let him kiss her, let him touch her, and she hadn't stopped him. And she admitted that she liked him, sure that her actions a minute ago had been enough evidence of that. But . . . she couldn't bring herself to say yes just yet.

"Tomorrow night, I'll pick you up at seven."

"Wait," she said, back to that . . . uptight posture she expressed so well. "I need some time, Dallas." A sigh. "I like you, I do, but . . ." Her eyes met his. "Just give me a little time."

She was afraid, that much he could tell. Ella wasn't usually the type of girl he would ever consider going after, but . . . it was like he was a shark, having gotten his first taste of blood—Ella's blood—or a bee attracted to honey—he wanted more of her, and he didn't know why. He'd had plenty of girls before, and Ella wasn't anything special, but he was suddenly very hyper aware of how flushed her body was around him, how her eyes looked like dark blue crystals, and how rapid her breathing became . . . and the way she felt . . . Fuck, but he wanted to knock someone's block off. He decided to beat it out of there before he did something rash. Fuckin' Dopey. Why the hell had he kissed her? And he'd asked her out, too.

 _Fuck_.

"Whatever you say . . . Ella," he said, turning on his heel and heading off of the porch. Glory, but he needed a damn cigarette. Time. Who the fuck needed time? He wouldn't say that to her, though, but golly, Ella had always been a pain in the ass. Who the hell knew asking her out would cause a fucking rebound after he'd had his tongue in her mouth?

As she watched him walk away, Ella couldn't believe what had happened. Dallas had kissed her, had asked her out, too, and she wasn't sure what to think after that. Her thoughts were swimming and her heart was pounding, and for a moment, she felt . . . filled with happiness. But there was something else lurking beneath the surface, something that scared her—she wasn't sure how close Dallas would ever let her get to him, and for the first time, she felt afraid of what lingered beneath his exterior. Glory, but she needed a cigarette.

 _Don't get too close_

 _It's dark inside_

 _It's where my demons hide_

 _It's where my demons hide_

* * *

 **And we're back, guys! I hope you all enjoyed the holidays! :)**

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback and enthusiasm for this story! It's very much appreciated! :3**


	13. Good Girl, Bad Boy

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Florida Georgia Line owns "Good Girl, Bad Boy."**

* * *

 _Well she's sundress cotton, he's grease on a Carhartt shirt_

 _She's a candle in the wind, he's a light it up and let it burn_

 _And every time she's with him all she wants to do is kiss him_

 _Starts thinkin' maybe she can fix him and he's thinkin' he'd love to let her try_

 **August 10, 1966**

Dallas rubbed his forehead, his lips pressed into a line as he stared up at the yellowing ceiling. Glory, but he'd had one helluva night, and it wasn't even the liquor that had done him in. He didn't know why Ella "Dopey" Mitchell was the star of his thoughts, but he'd been trying to forget about her, and the fact that he had both kissed her and asked her out. Jesus Christ, but what the hell had he been thinking? The thing was, he couldn't stop thinking about it, though, and he'd spent the last few nights bedding other broads to forget about his former air-headed tutor. But even fucking those other chicks wasn't enough to remove the taste of Ella from his tongue, or dissolve the lingering reminder of how soft she felt against him, and he wanted more . . . he wanted _her_.

A light moan sounded from beside him, and he rolled his eyes, sitting up quickly and pulling his pants up his legs as he staggered out of the bed. His blazing gaze settled on the girl who was just waking up from his movements, her brown orbs focusing on his as she stared at him with a lethargic expression.

"You're a rowdy one," was the first thing that came out of her mouth, her voice husky with sleep, and she grinned. "Hell, darlin', but you's like a crazy jackrabbit all over me last night, not stoppin' for nothin'."

The blond's teeth ground as he scoffed. Yeah, not stopping because he only had one person on his mind while he was fucking this broad, and it pissed him off all the more. That's what it always came down to, though—the fact that he wanted Ella fucking Mitchell, of all people, to be his. He remembered telling himself several months back that she wasn't his type, that she would most likely end up with a good guy who would take care of her and all that jazz, that her picture would be right next to "domesticated" in the dictionary. Ella wasn't good for him, or rather, _he_ wasn't good for Ella, and he knew it. But, glory hallelujah, he realized all too soon—at that moment—that he actually _did_ like her in some fucked up way, and he wanted an answer from her. It had been almost a week, and she'd never gotten back to him about going out with him, and even though he'd seen her once or twice in the past few days, she could hardly bring herself to look in his direction.

Dammit.

His fist suddenly hit the wall as he turned his back to the girl he'd spent the night with, and he barked out the order for her to leave—that she was making him sick, to just get the hell out.

He needed to see Ella.

* * *

Ella fanned herself inside the laundromat, a tired look on her face. The heat had been getting to her lately, wearing her out quicker and making her feel more worn than usual. Then again, August had been the hottest month yet, and it wasn't even a full two weeks in. Ella sighed, her eyes drifting to the clock above the door—it wasn't even eleven, and she'd been there since six. There was only one good thing that came with going to work that early, and it was being able to leave early, and Ella liked getting out of there by two o'clock.

She ironed a few more blouses, ignoring how rough her hands had become. She didn't complain at all, though, instead lotioning them every morning and night, teeth gritting at the blisters beneath her fingers and the rawness from where others had popped. Glory, but the thought of it made her sick, and as she glanced down at the bandage around her right hand, she grimaced. And golly, but picturing Ginger's old and wrinkled hands, which were calloused and rough, made her consider what her own would look like if she kept with this particular job. The thing was, it wasn't hard work, but she had scalded her hands a few time while using the old industrial iron, and her skin was rough from the chemicals that were used when she had to do the dry cleaning.

Just as she hung the last blouse in her pile on a hanger, she turned around at the sound of tapping against the window beside her in the back, her eyes widening at the sight of Dallas Winston. She had only seen him twice since he'd kissed her last Friday night—nearly a week ago now—but she never had the courage to speak to him, or even look at him. But her feelings for him remained, and even though she wondered why he'd asked her out, she tried to convince herself that, perhaps, he really did like her.

Wiping her hands on her work apron, the girl made her way around the ironing boards to the front of the store to meet Dallas. It was against her better judgment, but she couldn't help herself, or the sheer temptation that seemed to flood her veins whenever she was around him. Her heart drummed harder as she approached him, and she did her best to dismiss the memory of his lips on her own.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired, glancing up at him skeptically. Her voice hadn't come out harsh, though, but her gaze was fixed.

He grinned at her. "Ain't it obvious?" When she didn't answer, he rolled his eyes, lighting up a cigarette and leaning one arm against the exterior of the building. "You never gave me an answer, girl. You know somethin'? I usually don't stick around for this long—"

"Then why are you?" she interrupted, hands slipping into the apron pockets. Her eyes lowered as a frown appeared on her mouth. "I told you I like you, Dallas, and I do. I still do." A sigh. "I just need some time."

"It's been almost a week," he responded firmly, and then enclosed his hand around her elbow. "I ain't leavin' 'til you give me an answer."

Her mouth nearly spilled, and again, she wondered why Dallas was so desperate to go out with her, or was he just . . . looking for something? Ella knew that Dallas was dangerous, that he could hurt her in more ways than one, and most of all, she was still afraid of him, or rather, what was beneath that cold and icy exterior of his. At first, she had thought he was nothing but mean and vicious, and what scared her was the fact that he was . . . hollow. There were a lot of layers to Dallas Winston, and though his walls had been built up over the years, he had made himself hollow on the inside, hardening his heart until he felt practically nothing. She wondered if he did feel something, though, if . . . No, she told herself, halting her thoughts—letting herself entertain the concept that she was _the one_ was lethal. She would never try to change him, she wouldn't dare try.

But she still liked him, and she was willing to give him a shot. She didn't know if she was making a terrible mistake or not, but Dallas made her feel, made her come alive, and she wanted more of that; she wanted to see things through his eyes if only for a moment.

"Dallas—"

He cut her off. "Look, meet me at the stables tonight around, say, seven, would ya?"

Her brows furrowed for a second, but then she nodded. "Okay."

And then he was gone, leaving her watching after him with a nervous sensation creeping up her spine and her heart pounding in her chest. Biting her lower lip, she wondered why Dallas wanted to meet her that night, and at the stables, no less. But she couldn't help but look forward to it.

* * *

"Curtis, wait up!"

Ponyboy turned on his heel, eyes squinting in the sunlight as Curly Shepard swaggered over to him, his greased hair looking shinier in the brightness. Ponyboy had always considered Curly a buddy of his, knew him and Tim pretty well, but as of late, Curly had been trying to get him into things that he usually wouldn't agree to, like wreaking havoc across town, vandalizing, and other stuff that the younger teen wouldn't venture into. The threat of the state tossing him into a boy's home didn't sit well in his stomach, and he didn't much enjoy Curly's company recently.

"What's up, Curly?" he decided to ask, tone level.

The older greaser shot him a look. "Same ol'. Things have been goin' pretty smoothly with our gang, ya know, with all that shit that happened a few weeks ago." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pant pockets, a blank expression on his face. "Tim found out that Dusty Lewis was playin' him, put Daxon Jones in some fucked up predicament, too, even though his boys were selling dope on our turf."

Ponyboy nodded along. He didn't know Daxon Jones, but he knew he was the leader of the River Kings and a mutual of Shepard's at one point. He didn't know the exact details, but he'd heard that Tim and Dallas were hauled in due to some misshape with their outfit and Brumly's, and whoever this Dusty Lewis character was. Heck, he didn't know anything about that, and wasn't sure he wanted to, either. Besides, he didn't want to get roped into that sorta thing anyway—no sirree bub.

"What'd ol' Tim have to say to that?"

Curly lit up a cigarette. "Took care of Lewis alright, well, after Winston did." At that comment, Pony's brows shot up in surprise—he hadn't known Dallas was involved that far, but then again, knowing Dally Winston, he shouldn't have expected any less from the wild hood. "Ain't nobody seen that little rat around, but some time soon, we're gonna find out who he's been workin' for."

"Gee," came the mumbled response, "I didn't know y'all were havin' it so rough."

Curly dismissed his comment. "Yeah, well, when Tim gets his hands on the guy who Lewis is workin' for, he's gonna be far worse than whatever trouble Lewis set up for us in the first place." And then the black-haired teen smirked, lightly whacking the back of his friend's shoulder. "Speakin' of which, Curtis, but how'd you like to help me out, huh? We can hunt Lewis down."

Ponyboy came to a stop, glancing at Curly with a cocked eyebrow. "You think that's a hot idea?" His face was contorted with perplexity, wondering if Curly had lost some brain cells during his last visit to the cooler. "I don't think I ought to get mixed up with this, Curly." His voice was serious. "With the state breathin' down Darry's neck since . . . the incident last September, well . . ." He trailed on for a moment, hoping that Curly got the gist of it.

What he really meant, though, was that Darry would skin him if he so much as considered a proposition from Curly Shepard, one potentially as dangerous as that, no less.

"Yeah, sure, Curtis," he replied, though he sounded dismayed. And then he changed the topic. "Say, you still friends with that Ella broad? You know, long hair, ghostly look . . ."

"What about her?" Ponyboy inquired. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't like the fact that Curly Shepard was asking about Ella Mitchell, and he wondered if the two had met.

The darker-haired boy's grin was unnerving. "She was Winston's former tutor, right?" At Ponyboy's nod of affirmation, he continued on. "Saw her at a party a while back. She was there meetin' up with my kid sister, and we got to talkin', before Winston came over and blew up at me, thinkin' he was some kinda hotshot or whatever." He flicked his ashes, a bitter look in his eyes. "Hell, I think she liked me or somethin', and I wouldn't'a minded gettin' with her just for kicks, if you get me."

Ponyboy felt his stomach beginning to knot up. Usually, he didn't get involved with any of Curly's girls or Dally's beefs, or anything like that, but Ella was his friend, and hearing his buddy nearly trashing her by thinking she was . . . easy made his gut turn. Hell, he wouldn't have minded so much if it was Dally's former girlfriend Sylvia, but not Ella—she wasn't that kinda girl. But the image of Dallas coming in and making Curly leave Ella alone was entertaining, to say the least.

"Ella ain't like that," he defended, pursing his lips. "And I think she's a little old for you, Curly." He sent him a grin for good measure—he wasn't in the mood to get slugged right then. "I didn't know she knew your sister."

Curly laughed, a grim sound all in itself. "Angela knows just about everyone, Curtis." He shook his head, tossing his finished cigarette to the ground, and cracked his knuckles. "And age don't matter in this case anyway." And he smiled condescendingly. "I'll bet that broad ain't ever spread her legs for any guy before."

Ponyboy didn't say anything, but he didn't want to. Curly was his buddy, and their gangs respected each other, but sometimes, listening to his friend talk like that made him sick. Hell, the only reason was because he was talking real lousy about his friend, one he considered himself close with, and just picturing Ella in his mind made him internally cringe. If it was someone trashing Angela Shepard just for kicks—and he didn't even know her, only heard of her—he would have joined in, or laughed, or said something to smart off, but Ella . . . Ella was his friend.

Boy howdy, but things were bizarre in that aspect. How strange was it that he would defend Ella, his friend, to the brother of the girl he, himself, would plainly talk lousy about in the same token? He didn't know why things were like that, but they were, and sometimes he didn't know what to think.

* * *

Ella liked the days where she and Evie could meet up at the Dingo for a late lunch, since they both worked morning shifts. Ella worked six to two, and Evie worked in the gift shop at the hospital four days a week, eight to two, so they would meet up to grab a bite to eat and chit chat for an hour or so before going their separate ways. Sometimes, Mary would join them, but apparently, her aunt was keeping her on a tight leash, and both Ella and Evie had a sneaking suspicion that it was because of Soda—and whether or not that was true, Soda felt the same way, too. From what Ella had gathered about Mary's aunt, the woman was strict and disciplined, and Evie had once made a remark that she thought Mary might be afraid of her, not that either girl would blame her.

Evie took a bite of her burger, a moan in her throat as she chewed away. "I swear," she said between bites, "there ain't no place better that serves burgers."

Ella laughed, peeling an onion ring. "I'll say. You're just about devouring that thing."

Grinning, the younger girl replied. "At least it's better than peeled onion rings." She made a face. "Why do you order them if yer only gonna eat the outside?"

"That's the only part I like," came the response, and she flushed. "I used to do it when I was younger, too. It drove my mother up the wall, said I was wasting her money."

"Well, if it makes ya feel better, I used to cut the end of my fries off when I was little," Evie admitted, her lips curving upward on one side. "I ain't sure why I ever did that, but Beth still does." A shrug. "I guess she saw me doin' it and figured that was what she was supposed to do, too."

Ella smiled, remembering Evie's kid sister Beth. She was an awfully nice girl once you got to know her, but upon meeting her for the first time, Ella had assumed she was rather cynical. But she realized it was she who was being judgmental, for Beth was really shy, even though she wanted to be included with her sister and her friends. Evie hardly let her hangout with her friends, though, constantly having to kick her out of their shared bedroom. Then again, Evie had always been fair, too, and whenever Beth invited her girlfriends to the house, Evie would leave the room to give them their privacy. _It's a two way street_ , was her motto.

"Anyway," Evie continued, voice cutting through her thoughts, "you have any plans tonight? Me an' Steve might be goin' to the movies or somethin', or maybe the bowling alley, but I don't know yet." She pursed her lips. "You know, Two-Bit is still chasin' that Bridget Stevens around, and I heard they might be goin' to the bowling alley, too . . ."

Ella's eyes widened; she hadn't heard Bridget's name in quite some time, and remembering the younger girl, a genuine smile touched her lips. Hell, but homecoming last October had been quite the disaster, but in the end, things had . . . seemed to work out for the four girls who had become the most unlikely of friends. Somehow, though, Evie and Ella had gotten closer than what Ella ever thought they would, but she was glad for that—Evie was real, and she was a great friend once she trusted a person—that, and after you got passed her constant sarcasm.

"Gee, I wish I could come with y'all, but . . . I'm meeting Dally—"

"Dally?!" Evie sounded shocked, bewildered . . . and horrified. "As in Dally Winston?"

The brown-haired girl nodded, cheeks tinting. "He asked me to meet him at the stables at seven, and well, I said I would." It suddenly dawned on Ella that she hadn't told Evie—her current best friend, besides Ponyboy, not that she had many friends to begin with, because she didn't really count Angela Shepard, who she hadn't seen around since her washer had been miraculously fixed—that Dallas Winston had kissed her and had asked her out, twice now. The thought alone made her stomach flutter, and she wondered what Evie would say to her, but she decided right then wasn't the place or time. "I mean, I—"

"I ain't sure if I should tell you to go because I know how you feel 'bout him, or if I should drill it into that brain of yours that Dallas Winston ain't a good guy, Ella," she said, and then sighed, a dramatic expression blanketing her features. "Look, Ella, Dallas isn't . . . he's not a good guy, no matter how . . . decent he can seem on occasion. He's dangerous, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

She nodded. "I know, and I appreciate you lookin' out for me, Evie, I do, but it's just—"

"I know, I know," the brunette said in mock surrender. "You like him, I get it."

Ella couldn't contain the faint blush that coated her cheeks, but she changed the topic. "So, Two-Bit and Bridget Stevens, huh . . ."

* * *

Steve downed a bottle of Pepsi in one motion, the carbonation causing his tongue to tingle. But it was hot, so damn hot, and the inside of the garage was even worse. Across from him, Soda was dripping sweat beads down the entirety of his face and neck, the front of his shirt damp in places. It looked as though his hair was soaked, too, the grease doing little to hold it in place. Steve tossed his bottle into the garbage, taking a deep breath as he stepped in front of the fan inside the store. Soda joined him a few seconds later, holding his arms out before lifting his shirt a little to cool off.

"Glory, it's sure hot out," he remarked, wiping at his face for the umpteenth time.

Steve subconsciously rubbed the back of his neck. "You say that every day, buddy."

"Well, hell, it's been a million and one degrees out there," came the worn response, and Steve shook his head in agreement. "Giberson's has got A/C, and it's nice workin' inside on the weekends, no matter how hot it gets."

The older teen wasn't sure why, but even though he was damn happy for his best friend, something about his comment had floored him. Perhaps he didn't think it was fair that Soda was getting all those hours, and even got to work in a nicer atmosphere two days a week, but he told himself that wasn't the case, because he'd been excited for him when he'd landed the job several months back. Glory, but the heat must have been getting to him good that day, because he didn't intend for the next words out of his mouth to sound so harsh.

"Yeah, well, you're only stayin' there because of Mary anyway."

Soda's brown eyes seemed to enlarge as he shot the dark-haired boy a glare. "What's that supposed to mean, Steve?"

He shrugged, moving away from the fan and grabbing another Pepsi. "Exactly what it sounds like, I guess." After taking a swig of his beverage, he continued. "Seems like that chick is the only thing that's on your mind recently, and hell, I get it an' all, but . . ."

"But what?" Soda challenged, expression offended. He knew Steve wasn't exactly a fan of Mary, and that was all okay, but Mary hadn't done nothing to him, and hearing his best buddy, of all people, say that he was only keeping a job because of his girlfriend was lousy in his eyes. "Well?"

Steve's brows pressed together. "Just that she comes before everything with you now. I'm just sick of hearin' you goin' on and on about her, that's all. She can't even leave her house 'cause her aunt's got her on a leash. And what does that tell ya, huh?" His nose wrinkled. "If her aunt don't think you're good enough for her—"

"Now wait just a second, Steve," Soda cut in, side-stepping him. "That ain't fair and you know it. Mary don't gotta choice, man. It ain't like she's eighteen and can go around doin' what she wants, when she wants, and her aunt might not like me, but that's got nothin' to do with how . . . with how Mary and I feel about each other."

And there it was. Steve didn't trust Mary DeVaney, and he could tell that Soda was headed down that same path that he was with Sandy. Hell, he hadn't ever been too fond of Sandy Vincent, but he wouldn't have ever imagined her as the cheating type, but Mary . . . he didn't trust her at all. Maybe it was because she was a Soc, even if Soda continuously denied it, but he couldn't bring himself to care about her, no matter how happy he was that Soda was back to his old self.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, licking his lips. "Whatever you say, Soda."

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, not bothering to look back at his friend. He really hadn't meant to come off so cool, but he was just looking out for his friend, and for whatever reason that he couldn't fathom, he didn't like Mary, and not even Soda was gonna change his mind—him or Evie. Heck, that was another thing that irked him, the fact that Evie had befriended Mary. Sure they got along, but still . . . he didn't know what to think.

* * *

Ella spotted Dallas easily enough, his white-blond hair sticking out like a sore thumb as he rode around the ring on a black mustang. For a moment, the girl was awe-stricken by how peaceful the scene was, and just looking at Dallas right then, she saw him in a new light. The sun was low on the horizon, the sky a perfect mixture of orange, yellow, and red, and up ahead, Dallas and his wild mustang were slowly becoming silhouettes, and for once, Ella realized just how at peace the wild hood was. She knew then how at home he appeared, and she realized that nobody—no living person—would ever be able to tame Dallas Winston, for he was as wild and free as his stallion mustang.

She watched him for another minute or so before approaching the pen and leaning against the wooden exterior, raising an eyebrow, a small smile brushing her lips. Dallas noticed her a moment later, easily directing his horse into a trot, and then a walk, before coming to a stop in front of her.

"See ya decided to show up," he said in a gruff voice, a small breeze blowing some of his hair across his eyes. "Can't say I'm not surprised."

"I told you I would come," Ella replied. "Is this Artemis?" she asked next, nodding toward the mustang with an expression of sheer wonderment.

"Sure is," he answered proudly. "I've been trainin' her since I got her." And then a smirk formed on his lips as he glanced down at Ella, his eyes impish. "You wanna ride her?"

The question caused her to freeze as she stared up at Dallas and then Artemis. She had never ridden a horse before, and she really didn't want to do so then. Hell, with her luck, she would most likely get thrown off and have her head bashed in. No, she wasn't really a "country girl", and she sure as hell didn't know the first thing about horses, or how to ride them, or . . . anything really. Dallas had always challenged her, though, making her step out of her comfort zone and do things she didn't think she was capable of ever doing before, but . . . this? She wasn't so sure it was a good idea.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I've never ridden a horse before." When Dallas didn't respond to her right away, she glanced up at him with a bewildered look, realizing that he was simply staring down at her with the same exact expression. "What?" she asked, her cheeks flushing.

He reached his hand out, face devilish and eyes mischievous, but his grim smile was genuine. "Ya trust me, sweets?"

"Not really," she responded truthfully, pursing her lips at his outstretched hand. "I really don't think—"

"Pull yourself up," he said, interrupting her.

Ella looked awfully doubtful, her brows knitted together, a crease in her forehead. She was scared to do it, to climb up on the fence, swing herself over, and pull herself onto the horse with Dallas. The fear was evident in her eyes, and she wasn't sure that she could trust the blond in front of her, either. Then again, at the same time, she wanted to prove to him that she could do it, that she wasn't afraid, but she really just wanted to prove it to herself. So with a determined expression, she carefully climbed up the side of the fence, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach as she took Dallas's hand to support herself as she swung her leg around the other side. Dallas was smirking all the more as she stood there for a minute, trying to find the best way to get onto the horse.

He gave her hand a tug. "Just pull yourself up."

Ella glanced at him, eyes wide. "What if I fall?" His look was enough to make her shut her trap, and with ambition in her gaze, she hoisted herself over the edge, her grip tightening around the blond's hand as she pulled herself up in front of him, a scream emitting from her lips as she wiggled to the other side once she was seated, nearly losing her balance. "Don't—" She breathed. "Don't let go."

Dallas rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, stupid. If I wanted to let you fall or somethin', I would've done it already." His grin was wolfish as he tucked her hair into the back of her blouse. "Then I would've ran you over for good measure."

"Shut up, hood," she fired back, even though she was chuckling lightly. And when his hands enclosed around the sides of her, she blushed, his chest pressing into her back as he pulled Artemis into a walk around the pen. "You really like this kinda thing, huh," she observed, relaxing ever so slightly. "Being around horses and working with them."

He answered her question with a question, something he seemed to do a lot of. "You trust me, sweets?"

"I—" She was quiet for a second, breathing in and out slowly, as she considered the repeated question, her voice suddenly calm. "Yes."

"Good," came the impish response, and it was then that she realized he was opening the gate to the pen, leading Artemis out into the field. "I ain't ever ridden her outside of here before, but I figure it's about time I give it a shot, see how she does an' all."

Ella's breath hitched. "Is that a good idea?"

"Quit tremblin', girl," he said, arms tightening around her waist. "You ready?"

Her eye twitched. "For wha—" And then she screamed as Artemis went into a full run, her hands immediately gripping Dallas's wrists. "Dallas!" she cried out, her voice seeming to echo as the wind whipped around her ears, her body shifting back a little.

And when she felt the light vibration from his chest against her back, indicating that he was chuckling, laughter fell from her lips, and her arms suddenly lifted as she spread them out on either side of her body, her eyes on the open plain before them, the sun low in the sky, her veins pumping with a newfound boldness of freedom, and she wondered if this is how Dallas felt . . . if this is what he truly lived for, the rawness of life and nature . . . wild and free.

The two of them continued on around the field for a while, until Dallas brought them back to the pen in a walk, the air seeming to cool off just a little. In front of him, Ella was silent, her body leaning back against his, giving him an awfully nice view down the front of her blouse. He smirked, unsure if she even realized it or not, but he'd have to tease her about it, because getting her all fired up had always been a hobby of his. But before he could do so, she was already speaking, her voice coming out more softer, more quiet.

"Why did you ask me to come here?" she inquired.

He shrugged. "No reason. Wanted to see if you'd really show, and ya did." He shifted, leaning forward a bit so his mouth was beside her ear. "And I can't deny, sweets, the view from here is . . . real nice."

It took her a second to catch on, but when she did, a frustrated groan emerged from her throat. "Oh, you're unbelievable, Dallas," she leered, shaking her head with a scoff. "We're on a horse."

And then he chuckled, a bitter sound, but still a chuckle. "And you're leaning back into another one." He snickered at the side of her stricken face at his vulgar innuendo. "So, you gonna let me take ya out or what?"

Ella smiled, for once not hearing the echo of Evie's words in her head about Dallas, for once not questioning herself, but for once, deciding to just let things happen instead. She knew about Dallas—she had spent a great deal of time around him for nearly a year, and she was willing to give him a shot, having wanted this for months now. Glory, but she still didn't think any of it was real, and sometimes, she wanted to pinch herself to see if she really was awake.

"Okay," she agreed gently. "When?"

"Saturday night, seven o'clock," he answered. "I'll pick ya up."

Once Artemis was back in the pen, Dallas hopped down, before offering his hand to Ella so she could follow suit. She made her way over to the fence, hopping up and sitting on the ledge as she watched Dallas give his horse a treat, a smile on her face. A year ago, she would have never imagined herself being with Dallas, never would have dreamed she would have enough courage to ride a horse, or do any of the things that she had done so far that Summer. Everything felt surreal to her, and now that she had finally agreed to go on a date with Dallas, she felt a change in herself, and she wasn't sure what it was.

The towheaded teen walked out of the pen, circling around to where Ella was seated on the edge of the fence as she turned her body so that she was facing him. He placed his hands on the wood on either side of her, a glint in his orbs as he stared up at her with a small, barely noticeable, grin.

"Seven then, yeah?" When she nodded, her eyes not meeting his again, he leaned forward, pressing between her legs and causing her head to snap up, eyes on his own. "Do I really make ya that nervous, sweets?" A smirk. "Glory, but your face sure is red."

At his words, Ella felt a sudden surge of determination flood her veins, and leaning forward, she pecked his lips quickly, shaking her head.

"No," she said, reaching her hands out to nudge him back so she could hop down. "I have to get home, but I'll see you Saturday at seven." A challenging look flickered in her eyes. "If you're not too nervous to actually show up . . ."

He watched her make her way to her mother's car, shaking his head at her. Damn, she was trouble, a thorn in his side since day one, but he was beginning to think he didn't mind it so much after all, even if she unceasingly pissed him off. Yeah, Ella was trouble alright, a good girl, but he wasn't a good guy, surely not right for her, but fuck, he sure was attracted to trouble . . . and he wanted Ella Mitchell.

 _And every time she's with him_

 _She knows she probably oughta quit him_

 _But he don't wanna let her get away_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback!**

 **Bridget Stevens is owned by the very talented _AndThatWasEnough_. Check out "Bratpack 2.0" (a joint account for _AndThatWasEnough_ , _lulusgardenfli_ , and I) to read our collaborative stories. :3**


	14. Every Second Amplified

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Christina Grimmie owns "Sublime."**

 **(AndThatWasEnough owns Bridget Stevens.)**

* * *

 _Gettin' lost in your blue skies_

 _All my senses come alive_

 _Every second amplified tonight_

 **August 13 – 14, 1966**

Ella was glad that her mother was working Saturday night at the bar, because she would be absolutely damned if she had to introduce Dallas Winston as her date. It's not like she could avoid the issue for long, though, which she knew, but she had to also remind herself that this was simply a date and nothing more. Still, the idea had excited her for the rest of the week, and Dallas occupied her mind day in and day out, and she would often find herself waking out of a daydream to have Ginger snapping at her, or Evie flicking her on the shoulder or something. Speaking of Evie, the brunette hadn't exactly looked all that excited for Ella going out with Dallas, but in the end, there was nothing she could really do, so she instead decided to support her friend's (poor) choices.

But the lingering thought of telling her mother about Dallas caused a sinking feeling in the very pit of her fluttering gut, and Ella decided that she would do her best to keep her date to herself. If anything happened, as in her and Dallas becoming an item . . . well, she dreaded what she would say to her mother, who was still bitter over learning that Ella had given up walking at graduation all for what she deemed a no good hoodlum, someone who probably wasn't worthy of her daughter's help.

But, so far, she was enjoying her time with Dallas. They had gone to the Nightly Double, hardly paying attention to the beach movie that was playing on the large screen ahead. Ella wasn't particularly that interested in seeing a movie anyway—she just wanted to spend time with Dallas. He didn't seem too engrossed in the movie, either, and Ella could tell that he was growing antsy, but she didn't know what to do. The only person she had ever been on a date with was Craig, and usually, he would do whatever she wanted to, but he'd always asked her first, or initiated it. Ella wasn't sure how to approach the blond-headed hood with anything, and truthfully, he still made her feel nervous, albeit in a good way.

She cleared her throat, running the hem of her skirt through her fingers. "So." She turned to face him, lips pursing. "You don't look like you're having fun."

"I ain't," he admitted, and then looked at her with a cocky expression. "But there's plenty of other things we could be doin' that might be fun."

Ella's chest tightened at the insinuation. She wanted to kiss him so badly, she did, but she swore to herself that she wouldn't do so—she didn't want him to think that she was like that, that she was so easy that she would let him entertain himself on the very first date. Her thoughts nagged at her that he wouldn't be interested in her if she didn't do anything, though, if she didn't at least enjoy herself, too. But Ella wasn't one to easily give in or cave, and she was stubborn and hard-headed, too. No, she told herself, she wouldn't give in to Dallas.

"Then why don't we leave and find something else to do?" she suggested, watching his face carefully twist into a surprised look. "We could go to the bowling alley, or . . . get something to eat—"

"Yeah," he agreed, rubbing his fingers over the stubble on his chin. "Yeah, a bite to eat sounds good."

With that, he turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life, and he backed out of the lot to head downtown to one of the cheaper diners. Ella had been surprised that Dallas had bothered to pay for them to sit in the car—Buck's T-Bird—at the movies. Then again, he had actually kept his word and had shown up . . . well, a few minutes after seven, for their date that night, but he had come just like he said he would. She contemplated his motives as he drove to the diner, wondering if he really liked her or not. She wanted to tell herself that he did, but no matter how much she tried to force them away, Evie's words haunted her mind, a strong reminder that Dallas Winston wasn't a good guy, that he was dangerous.

The diner wasn't crowded at all, which wasn't surprising for a late Saturday night. Everyone was out at the movies, or the bowling alley, or down by the lake, and for a split second, Dallas fancied the idea of taking Ella to the lake, a smirk crossing his lips. Hell, he'd taken a few girls there before, but he had a feeling that Ella would probably get out of the car and run away if he did that. The thought in itself was comical, and he had a feeling he wouldn't be getting anything from his date that night. Ella wasn't like that, he knew that much, but it wouldn't stop him from trying. Besides, she was dressed in a shorter skirt—not too short—and a blouse with a few buttons undone, and he could only imagine himself ripping it all the way open and going to town. Fuck.

Pulling into the parking lot, he shook his head, ridding himself of those thoughts. Fuckin' Ella, Christ, but he hadn't been able to get that chick off his mind for the past few nights, and she was driving him straight up a damn wall.

He didn't say anything to her as he got out of the car, making his way into the building with only a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she was following. Once inside, they sat in one of the back booths, only a few other customers making up the rest of their company. Dallas scoffed, wrinkling his nose before letting his gaze settle on the girl across from him. Her face was flushed, her eyes on the table as she stared down at the paper menu in front of herself. She'd hardly said a word to him all night, and he was beginning to think she really was _that_ nervous. Hell, Ella had always been rather reserved, quiet unless someone addressed her, but she'd seemed to come around to him, and she sure as shit wasn't afraid to (attempt to) put him in his place.

With a smug look, he stretched his leg out under the table, intentionally brushing hers, before hooking it around her calf and bending his knee a bit to give her a little squeeze. Her eyes shot open as she stared at him for a second, cheeks blushing. Well, he figured, he might get something outta her—a meal and some light provocative gestures ought to do the trick. Ella wasn't easy, though, but she was a little too trusting when it came to him—but only because she liked him, not in general.

"So I gotta ask," he said, leaning back in the booth. "How long have ya liked me?"

Ella felt the heat surfacing throughout her entire body. "I dunno," she answered with a shrug. "A while, I guess. Since February or something like that."

Jesus Christ, he thought, Two-Bit hadn't been pulling his chain when he'd pointed it out all those months back. Hell, he'd never paid enough attention to Ella Mitchell, or her feelings, or hardly any little thing about her. Sure, he noticed the bigger things, the ones that stood out, but he would have never guessed that she liked him for . . . six months. Holy fuck. Six months? That was half a fucking year.

"Why didn't ya say somethin'?" He didn't really care, not really, but perhaps he would have . . . gotten with her. Maybe.

"You were with Cherie Peters," she admitted quietly. "And you and I weren't . . . always on good terms anyway, so . . . nothing would have become of it." She licked her lips. "I wasn't hopeful, either."

Dallas grinned at her answer. "You hopeful now, sweets?"

Ella's eyes met his. "I'm honest with myself."

They ate their food while talking among each other about this and that, and Ella found that the more she spoke, the easier it was to relax herself. But she didn't dare allow herself to give in once, or to get sucked into Dallas's charms, which she knew he was trying to pull over on her. Oh, she liked him, and resisting his charm was quite a challenge, but if anything, she wasn't going to let him get what he wanted. Ella wasn't exactly a dumb girl, and she knew that Dallas wanted her in more ways than one, and she was sure that he wanted her physically more than he wanted to be with her in general.

"So," she said, wrapping her hands around her glass of soda, "what do you think of Ponyboy's book?"

"I don't," he replied in a fixed voice, scowling a little. And then he nodded toward her plate. "You done or what?"

Ella shook her head in affirmation. "Yeah." And then she continued with her question. "So you haven't read it yet?"

"Can we drop the book?" he bit out suddenly, glaring at her. "I ain't read the ending, but I'll get to it soon, is that what you wanna hear?" When she didn't answer, only nodded, her eyes large and rounded at the gruffness in his tone, he rolled his eyes. "Let's beat it, huh?"

They were silent for the most part on the ride back to her house, and Ella felt bad that she had brought up Ponyboy's book, but how was she supposed to know Dallas would react like he had? She had a feeling that the book would stir up some unexpected emotions in him, but she hadn't expected him to get rough with her. With a sigh, her shoulders slumped as they pulled up in front of her property, an anxious look written on her face as Dallas put the car in park. Her eyes drifted toward the clock, and she figured her mother wouldn't be home for another two hours or so—it was only twelve anyway.

"Well," she said, voice seeming louder to her ears than what it was, "I had fun tonight."

Dallas nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll see you around, then," she replied when he didn't bother to say anything else, but before she could make it out of the car, his arm was wrapped around hers, and she was being tugged back inside, the door closing once again. "Dal—"

His lips were on hers in one fluid motion, and her body instantly relaxed. Oh, this was bad, she yelled at herself, so, so bad, but it was so, so good, too. She responded just as eagerly, just as hungrily, hands weaving themselves into his unkempt white-blond hair. It was soft against her skin, and she let her fingers run through it, a motion she had only done in her wildest dreams. All of her senses were heightened tenfold, and the feeling of Dallas's tongue moving against her own and inside of her mouth was enthralling. She thought she might have went limp completely from all of the feelings radiating throughout her body, but Dallas's hand supporting the back of her head was holding her in place.

When he pulled back, he cat-grinned at her, taking in her flushed face and swollen lips. "See ya later, Ella," he said, letting her go altogether.

She nodded, dropping her hands and breathing in and out slowly as she climbed out of the car, her lips still slightly parted as she stepped out into the Summer night air. "Goodnight, Dallas . . ."

Her heart was beating twice as hard, everything amplified around her.

* * *

"She must be somethin' awfully special if you're pursuing her," Tim said, sucking on a cigarette, a glint of humor in his blue orbs. "I thought Cherie Peters was more your speed."

Dallas snickered, but his own expression was less friendly. "I only kept Cherie around for kicks, and besides, that broad kept following me around with her tail between her legs offering it up like free candy." A shrug. "Who was I to say no to that?"

Tim smirked. "But Ella Mitchell? What do you want with her?"

"I don't," came the blunt response. "She's entertaining."

Truthfully, Dallas hadn't been able to get Ella off his mind for the past week almost, and remembering their date only last night, he wasn't sure what he really wanted from her anymore. Sure, he had been fancying the idea of getting into her panties, but she was proving to be a bit more difficult than what he originally assumed. Hell, it was easy to get her going once his tongue was in her mouth, but there was some form of reluctance on her end, as if she were afraid to really let loose. The blond-headed hood wasn't stupid, though, and he knew that Ella was too nervous and uptight to let herself go around him—he wouldn't hesitate to encourage her more if she ever did. But Ella wasn't like that, and even though his interest solely rested in how far he could get her in the sack, he . . . _somewhat_ respected her, not much, but there was some form of it below the surface, buried deep, deep down.

"Yeah, sure," Tim replied, tossing his finished cigarette into the garbage bin. "Entertaining for how long?" He shook his head, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall separating the living room and kitchen of his house. "I heard you sent Curly running 'cause he was moving in on your territory, or so he says."

The younger hood rolled his eyes. "Maybe she is my territory now." A sly grin stretched about his lips slowly as he twirled the ring he'd rolled from a drunk senior around his finger. "Just gotta give her this and she's no longer free game." His bottom lip curled back. "I like a good challenge anyway, so you can tell Curly to get a broad his own age."

Tim didn't really give two shits about any of Dallas's girls, or what he did in his personal affairs, but hearing about him pursuing Ella Mitchell because he thought she was a challenge was fascinating, and quite humorous, if he was being honest with himself, which he was. He didn't think all that much of Ella Mitchell—she was a strange one, that girl—and from what he'd heard from Angela, she wasn't that much fun, either, so whatever Dallas saw in her must've been something real interesting. Tim didn't care, though—it was just a riot getting under the blond's skin and taking jabs at him. Nah, he didn't really care about Ella Mitchell, or Curly's misshape with Dallas, either. As far as he was concerned, it was all just entertainment to him, and he had no qualms with sitting back and enjoying the show.

But he had other business to attend to, business by the name of Daxon Jones, which was his initial reason for asking Dallas to stop by. He'd surely taken his sweet ass time, though, but it wasn't like it really mattered all that much. He'd already spoken to Daxon Jones about Dusty Lewis and all that jazz, only to find that he was still in the same predicament as before. Nobody knew where this kid came from or who he was working for, but Tim still had a beef with Jones for his boys selling dope on his turf—and he hadn't forgotten about it, either, nor had he forgotten about his boy Chris Marmo going after his sister.

"Well you have fun with your new challenge," he said, dropping onto the worn out couch. "Right now, we got other shit to deal with."

Dallas grinned lethally. "I'm all ears."

* * *

Sunday afternoons at the diner were always an enjoyment, but this particular Sunday, Ella could hardly enjoy her friend's company because her thoughts were too invested in her date the night before. Hell, she'd woken up with a smile plastered on her face, and for a while, she felt like she'd dreamed the entire thing—that is until Evie had called her up wanting to know the "dirty details", as she had called them, and by golly had Ella's face turned every shade of red in a matter of seconds. So Evie had decided that they should meet up for brunch at the diner on the nicer side of town to talk, and so far, only Evie was doing any sort of talking, for Ella was lost in a world of daydreams and bliss.

"Ella!" Evie snapped at her, balling a napkin and tossing it at her face. "I'm talkin' to ya here."

The brown-haired girl's eyes shot open, her gaze clearing up as she met the stubborn look of Evie. "I'm sorry," she mumbled out, and shook her head. "I was—"

"Yeah, yeah," the brunette said coolly, rolling her eyes. "Daydreamin' over Dallas Winston, good Lord. What? Does he got a magic beef stick nobody knows about or somethin'?"

Ella's face went stark red. "I wouldn't know," she answered. "But he kisses real nice."

Evie wanted to slam her head on the table. Oh, sure, it was wonderful seeing Ella happy again after the majority of her Summer had been spent in sheer misery over worrying about her mother, but hearing about Dallas Winston was getting quite annoying—not that Evie wanted to admit that aloud. Hell, she respected Ella's feelings for the notorious hoodlum, but she didn't like them. But Ella had been rather happy for the past week, and Evie had no intentions of destroying her good mood.

"Alright, alright," she replied, thinking of how she could tell Ella stories about how good Steve was in other areas of anatomy. "So, you had fun, then?" At her friend's eager nod, she continued. "That's great to hear, but what's next? Did he ask you out again, or—"

"No," she answered, clearly dismayed. "I mean, we left the movie early because it wasn't any good, so we went to that diner downtown and talked for a while, which was nice and all, but I don't know, Evie, I hope he doesn't . . . just want me for a cheap thrill."

The younger teen nodded thoughtfully. "So don't let his junior near your cave of wonders and you'll be just fine." She cocked an eyebrow. "Hell, I didn't let Steve pop the cork until . . . well, it was quite a ways into our relationship—few months or so, easy. But I wanted things to be somewhat right between us."

Ella looked shocked at her friend for her bluntness, but truthfully, she was feeling nervous. Evie was more open and honest where she was more reserved and quiet, and just the thought of being with Dallas _that way_ was . . . nerve-wracking. She didn't want to think about that, but she wasn't sure how to explain to Evie that she was . . . afraid(?) to do the deed. Evie wouldn't laugh at her, she knew that, but it was embarrassing—humiliating, even—to admit such a thing, or so she believed. Fortunately for her, though, her savior came in the form of Bridget Stevens, Two-Bit's love interest of the Summer, as she entered the diner a moment later.

Ella hadn't really seen the girl all that much since last October after the homecoming dance, and just seeing her then made her feel like a wave of nostalgia washed over her, and judging from Evie's expression, she had felt the same way. Bridget hadn't noticed them right away, instead making her way inside, green eyes scanning the area for somebody she was meeting. But when her gaze met Ella's across the room, the older girl offered her a tiny wave, unsure of how she would react. Bridget smiled, offering a wave back as she made her way over to where she and Evie were seated.

"I wasn't sure that was you at first," Bridget said once she was close enough to their booth. Her eyes trailed over Ella's straightened locks. "You look fantastic!" She nodded to Evie. "It's great seeing you both!"

Ella smiled back. "Thanks, you look great, too." She glanced at Evie as she greeted their old friend and former "business partner", before she continued. "Are you meeting someone? Or would you like to join us for brunch?"

Bridget's cheeks tinted ever so little. "Well, I am meeting someone, but I guess he's not here yet, so yeah, I'd love to join you guys." She plopped down beside Ella so that she could face the door, and Evie noticed the anxious look on her face.

"You waitin' for Two-Bit Mathews, Stevens?" she asked, wiggling her brows a little. It wasn't exactly a secret that the two of them were testing the waters of their relationship. "You're lookin' awfully red over there."

Bridget flushed. "I am, actually." And then she frowned. "He said he would be here, but you know how Two-Bit is . . . never on time."

Evie chuckled, picking at her scrambled eggs. "Well, all them boys are just the same." She nodded in Ella's direction. "We were actually just discussing this one's date last night . . . with Dallas Winston."

Bridget's eyes nearly popped as she looked at Ella quickly. "Dallas?" she repeated, worry in her voice. "As in—"

"Yeah," Evie said. "As in Dallas Winston, _the_ Dallas Winston."

The black-haired girl tried to conceal the shock on her face. "Well, that's nice," she said, trying to be polite. "How was it?"

It was Ella's turn to flush. "It was nice. We had fun."

Bridget nodded slowly, still trying to digest the fact that Ella Mitchell had gone on a date with Dallas Winston. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but she would have _never_ imagined Ella being the type of girl to go with a guy like Dallas, but then again, it had been quite a while since they'd last really seen or spoke to each other, and a lot could happen in that time span. It occurred to Bridget that she didn't know these girls any better than they knew her, for they had all changed. She briefly wondered how Cathy was doing, but rumor had it that she had gone back to Graves, so she and Evie wouldn't be seeing her this upcoming school year. Ella had graduated, but it would have been nice seeing her, too.

"Well, I'm happy for you," she decided to say.

The trio talked for the next several minutes, catching up on how they were doing, what was happening in their lives, and all of that jazz. Evie found that she really admired Bridget Stevens, even more than she had after the homecoming catastrophe last October. Bridget was still a Soc, but she didn't make it an exact secret that she was seeing Two-Bit Mathews, and Ella, well, she had to be either incredibly courageous, or downright stupid, and Evie knew it wasn't the latter. But here they were, Ella and Bridget, seated across from her, both girls in a similar situation—seeing guys that were far different than either of them.

Yeah, Evie thought to herself, maybe they were all still different on the outside, but they were all still the same on the inside, too.

* * *

Ponyboy wasn't exactly accustomed to seeing Soda looking so miserable, as he was always the happy-go-lucky of the bunch, so seeing him laying back on their shared bed with a blank expression veiling his face, eyes focused on the ceiling, he knew that something was up. Usually, Soda would be going on, talking about Mary by then, especially since she visited him at Giberson's Auto both Saturday and Sunday afternoons, but he was particularly quiet this evening, and he had been ever since he came home from work only two hours before.

"Hey," Ponyboy greeted, taking a seat at his brother's desk. "You okay?"

The golden-haired teen placed his hands behind his head. "Oh, yeah, just peachy, Ponyboy." A sigh fell from his lips. "I just don't know what to do . . ."

"About what?" came the expected inquiry, and Pony's brows pressed together as he stared at his older brother with a look of perplexity.

Soda was silent for a minute before answering. "Well, about Mary. Steve don't exactly like her, and it's no secret that you ain't real fond of her, and I think . . . well, I think her aunt is tryin' to keep her and me away from each other, Ponyboy, and—" He threw his work hat across the room, rubbing his hands over his face, clearly frustrated. "I just can't stand it!"

The younger teen frowned. "Why would her aunt do that?" But he already knew the answer to his own question, for he and Darry had already heard from Soda that Mary's aunt didn't "accept" him because of his social status. "And that ain't true," he pointed out quickly. "I . . . I mean, I wasn't fond of her in the beginning, but I think she's awfully nice, Soda."

Soda tried to grin, but it only came out as a grimace. "Her aunt don't like me, and I kinda knew that the first time I met her, but Mary . . ." He licked his lips, eyes a little glassy. "Hell, Pony, I like her, I _really_ like her, and I just wanna spend time with her, ya know what I'm sayin', man?"

A nod. "Yeah, I know what you're sayin', Sodapop."

"It ain't like how it was with Sandy." He'd said his former girlfriend's name so casually that Ponyboy had to do a double take at him. Soda hadn't been able to so much as brush over Sandy's name without flinching just a little, and Ponyboy had no doubt that his brother was officially over her. Mary had done that, he reckoned, and perhaps that was a good thing, but Ponyboy was scared—and he figured that Steve was, too—that Soda was going to fall too quickly for Mary and end up getting hurt, but before he could say anything, Soda was already continuing on. "And you don't gotta lie to me, Pony, I know you're just getting along with her for me."

The younger teen made a face, and he decided that he needed to be honest. "In the beginning I felt that way, Soda. I didn't really like Mary, but it ain't like that no more, honest." He offered him a genuine grin. "We get along just fine now, and heck, I even promised her that I would let her read my book once Dally's done with it . . . whenever that'll be."

Soda's lips curved up a little. "You talk to Mr. Franklin yet?"

"No," he answered with a frown. "Darry's been askin' me about that, too. I suppose I should give him a call and let him know that I'm still filling out the consent form . . . that way he don't think I'm just blowing this whole thing off."

"Yeah," Soda agreed, nodding along. And then he sat up, looking at his brother. "By the way, have you heard about Ella?"

Ponyboy made a face, unsure of what his brother was referring to. "What do you mean?"

"Well, about her and Dally," he responded, placing his elbow on his knees. "They're seein' each other, went on a date last night an' all."

"Where'd you hear that?"

Soda shrugged. "Steve told me. Evie said Ella told her that Dally asked her out, and they were gonna go out last night." He pursed his lips. "Figured you woulda heard by now, but I wasn't sure."

"No," Pony replied, feeling glum. "I didn't know that."

Truthfully, the news had come as a shock to him, and he wasn't sure what to think about Ella going out with Dally Winston. Then again, he hadn't spoken to Ella in some time, and he knew that she had been busy with work and all, but he was surprised to learn that she had squeezed in time like that for Dallas when he had never been anything but harsh to her. But he remembered Ella's feelings for the towheaded hood as well, and a sinking feeling filled his gut as he considered them together. Of course, he would always respect Ella's feelings, but he couldn't believe she could be so . . . dumb.

It seemed that everyone was having their sublime Summer romances, though. Soda and Mary, Steve and Evie, Two-Bit and Bridget, and Dallas and Ella. Yeah, everyone except for him and Darry. But Darry was too busy to date anyone, and he wasn't exactly looking to involve himself with a girl just then, so he figured that everyone was making out okay. He wasn't sure how he felt about Ella and Dallas being together, and he sure hoped it didn't go that far. Ella was a nice and decent girl, and Dally would do nothing but get her into trouble, get her mixed up in his lifestyle and messed up way of living. He wondered if he ought to try and talk to her, but he knew it wasn't his place, and he valued Ella's friendship, so he decided not to get involved with her . . . romantic life.

With a shake of his head, he stood up, nodding once to Soda. Dinner wasn't gonna make itself, and with Darry getting called into work that afternoon, he didn't want him to walk in without a cooked meal and have to fend for himself.

"Wanna help me cook up some grub?"

Soda grinned, easing his thoughts for a while. Besides, food sounded fantastic. "Sure, kiddo."

 _Gonna be sublime_

 _So so sublime_

 _Feel your love all over me_

 _Can't stop thinking we could be sublime  
_

* * *

 **And there is chapter fourteen, y'all! Thank you for all of the support and feedback! :3**


	15. It Ain't Easy

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Bryan Adams and Tina Turner own "It's Only Love."**

* * *

 _When your world is shattered_

 _Ain't nothin' else matters_

 _It ain't over_ — _it's only love_

 **September 6, 1966**

Ponyboy plopped down beside Ella in the passenger seat of Mrs. Mitchell's Impala, a tired look on his face as he placed his newly covered books on the floor in front of himself. Glory, but it was the second week of school already, and the fifteen year old was dreading it. The Summer had gone by too quickly for him, and he felt like he had barely done anything worthwhile. Well, that wasn't totally true, for he had gotten the consent forms for Mr. Franklin nearly completed, he had cut back on smoking, _and_ he had gotten in shape for track—so he hadn't done too badly, he thought triumphantly.

Ella offered him a smile as she pulled away from his house, glad that she was starting work a little later that morning due to Ginger accidentally shifting the schedule. "So, how's school going?"

"Not too bad," he answered sheepishly. "Although, I ain't too happy with who I got as teachers, but I'll live, I guess." His brows pulled together slightly. "Actually, me and Evie have Mrs. Girdlé for art first period, so that ain't too bad."

The girl grinned. "That's nice."

Ponyboy nodded. He was glad that he and Ella were speaking more than they used to again, but it was tiresome hearing about Dally from her—not that he minded too much. He had noticed that Ella seemed much happier, more at ease with herself, similar to Soda and Mary, though he wasn't sure that he could exactly say the same for his older brother and his girlfriend. But Ella and Dallas had made it official between them three weeks back after their third or fourth date, and Ponyboy—as well as Evie—had been quite leery of the entire thing. Ella hadn't exactly said anything, but everyone knew when they saw her with the hood's notorious ring dangling from her neck on a silver chain.

But Ella and Pony had gotten close again in the past two weeks, which he was happy for. He'd always liked talking to Ella, for she was genuine and forthright, and he found that speaking to her about certain things was easier than bringing them up to Soda. But Soda had always been his "go to" person, because he understood everyone, and he was able to ease any situation. Ella was like that, but she expressed a certain wisdom that Ponyboy could relate to, and he was comfortable around her, just like she was with him. A friendship outside of one's family like that was rare, and Ponyboy had figured that after Johnny's death, he wouldn't find another person like that—he was glad to be proven wrong, though.

"How's your book forms coming along?"

The question snapped the younger teen from his thoughts. "Oh, I'm still waiting for Dally to sign his consent, or else I can't do anything." A sigh. "I spoke to Mr. Franklin about it, though, and he said not to worry. It don't matter when I turn the forms in . . . well, so long as it's some time this year."

Ella pursed her lips. She hadn't asked her boyfriend (it sounded so strange still to refer to him as such) about Ponyboy's book at all, only dropping one subtle hint that he was eagerly waiting for permission to publish it. Dallas had ignored her, though, changing the subject quickly and then avoiding it later at all costs. Ella wasn't sure why, even though she had a sneaking suspicion that Dallas was too nervous to read anywhere passed the seventh chapter. The thought of Dallas Winston being nervous over anything almost sounded bizarre, but Ella was no fool, and she knew that Dallas—though he was tougher than nails and meaner than mean—was still human.

"I'm sure he'll give it to you soon," she decided to say, keeping her eyes straight.

Ponyboy almost snorted. "Sure."

The girl's shoulders slumped, dreading anymore of that particular topic. "I haven't told my mother that I've been accepted at Berkeley."

"How come?"

A shrug. "I dunno. I just . . . I don't know if—" She paused, taking a deep breath. Her mother hadn't been feeling well for the past week and a half, but she was still going to work and keeping up with everything, but Ella was unsure what she, herself, wanted to do. She was beginning to worry over her mother's declining health, a terrible feeling circulating the bottom of her gut. "I'm not sure that I want to go right now," she finished, nose wrinkling at the lie. "I know it's still quite a bit away, but I just don't know, Pony."

"Well, you have a month or two to decide, right?" he said, shooting her a look. "Spring semester?"

Ella nodded. "Yeah. I have until December to notify them."

"Three months, then," he calculated. "That ain't too bad."

"No, it's not," she agreed, feeling somewhat anxious. She hadn't told anyone else other than Ponyboy about her acceptance letter from Berkeley College, and she wasn't sure that she was going to, not any time soon, though. Her thoughts drifted toward Dallas, and she wondered what he would say to her if she decided to go to college in the Spring next year. Would their relationship work? These were the questions that she didn't want to think about, but she knew she had to. She knew what her mother, and even Ponyboy, would say to her—that she had to do things for herself, put herself first, and think about her future. She sighed. "I'll figure it out, though . . . eventually."

Ponyboy's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Ella squinted as she pulled up in front of Will Roger's High School. "Is that Two-Bit and Bridget over there?" she asked, nodding ahead toward the student parking lot.

Ponyboy followed her gaze, nodding once. "Yeah. He said he would bring her in." He made a face, then. "I ain't sure if they're really together or what. I know Two-Bit is crazy about Bridget, though, even braved bringing her to school." He chuckled. "It's something, though, isn't it?" He smiled at Ella. "The social class divide seems to be . . . gone, almost, but—"

"I know," Ella said, and then sighed. "It's still there, and there are some people who won't forget." Her voice was as honest sounding as she looked, and the younger teen understood her words, for they were his own thoughts nagging at him. "But you shouldn't let it bother you."

"It doesn't," he replied earnestly. "Not anymore, or well, not like it used to anyway." Bending down, he grabbed his books, tossing his accompanier a rare grin. "Thanks for the ride."

Ella waved. "See you later!"

* * *

". . . so you know what she does to me?" Steve said, a quirky expression on his face. "She purposely leans over me on the couch to get her keys and junk, gives me a cocky smirk and gazes right at me." He shook his head. "I'm tellin' ya, she's somethin'."

From under the hood of a Mustang, his co-worker Pete chuckled. "Man, you sound like a fellow who's in love or something, Randle. This girl of yours must be real special."

Soda nearly snorted, his brown eyes almost lively. "Steve? He's in love all right . . . with his right hand and her five sisters." He dodged the rag that came sailing his way. "So, is Evie all about teasing you now or what, buddy?"

The dark-haired greaser shook his head. "Hell, I don't know. But she's getting mighty sassy lately, but not in a bad way, if you get me." He smiled to himself, having not felt this good in a while. Even with Evie in school almost seven hours a day and him working at the DX full time, they had managed to work out a schedule that benefited both of them—that way they could see each other during the week without bumping into each other's work schedules. "How's . . . how are you and Mary doin'?"

Soda's jaw clenched. He hadn't seen or heard from Mary DeVaney in over a week now. Every time he called her house, her aunt would tell him that Mary was busy, or that she was studying some stupid form of proper etiquette, or some other nonsense she was feeding him. Soda hadn't seen Mary for longer than that, though, and truthfully, he was getting mighty fed up with it. He really didn't want to drive to her house and start a scene just to get her attention, but he had considered it numerous times already. Only Steve knew how he really felt, and for once—after their argument several weeks back—he actually sympathized with his friend.

A shrug. "I dunno—"

But before he could finish his answer, Mary herself poked her head in from outside of the garage, a nervous look on her face as their eyes met. He inhaled deeply as Steve came to stand beside him, his eyes trailing Mary's small figure in the opening of the garage. He immediately knew that something was up, a cool sensation making its way up his spine.

"You want me to—"

"No," he replied, nodding once to Steve. "I want to see what she wants."

A nod. "Sure."

Even Pete watched the golden-haired teen as he made his way outside to speak with the small framed girl, his brows raising in Steve's direction as they disappeared around the corner of the garage. Steve had a bad feeling, and he regretted ever arguing with Soda about his girlfriend a month back, almost feeling guilty for raving about Evie only a few minutes ago.

Meanwhile, Soda stood firm in front of Mary, hands loosely held in his pant pockets, a fixed expression blanketing his features, eyes stony for once. Mary didn't look any better than him, but she appeared a lot more nervous, caramel eyes darting around them as if she were worried or on edge. Soda had never seen her like this before, and the thought that something might have happened to her, or maybe her aunt had— He shook those thoughts away, telling himself that he needed to hear from Mary what had been going on. But golly, he sure had missed her, and the scent of her perfume making its way into his nostrils nearly clouded his mind.

"You must be angry with me," Mary said, breaking the silence, lips folding together. "I'm so, so sorry, Soda, believe me, I am." She was bouncing a little on her feet, arms crossing over her middle as her gaze landed anywhere but on his own. "I understand if . . . if you don't want to talk to me, or—"

"I'm here, ain't I?" he cut in, brows raising as he continued to stare down at her. "What's happened to us, Mary? I haven't heard from you in almost two weeks."

And then she covered her face, shaking her head. "Oh, Soda, I know, and I'm sorry. Aunt Vera . . . she refuses to let me see you, and I don't know what to do." She was sniffling by then, feeling more than humiliated. Aunt Vera's scolding words echoed in her head that a lady shouldn't act out like this in public, that she was making a scene. "I wanted to call, I wanted to come to Giberson's last weekend, but I couldn't. I tried . . ." Her lips were trembling. "I tried so hard to talk to her and tell her how I feel, but she won't listen to me."

Soda instantly felt bad, reaching forward to place his hands on her shoulders. "Hey now, darlin', it's all gonna be okay, ya hear?" His finger slipped under her chin, brushing the delicate skin, as he lifted her head up so that their eyes met. "Mary, do you want to be with me?"

But the question only caused her to cry harder. "I do, Soda. I want to be with you, and sometimes, I . . . I don't know how I feel. Aunt Vera tells me that I'm naive and have no self control, but how would she know how I feel, or how we feel about each other?" For the first time, her eyes met his, brown on brown, both seeing their reflections aimed at each other. "Oh, Soda, I love you!" she all but cried.

And that was all the older teen needed before he bent down and kissed her, her arms looping around his neck as he pulled her closer to himself. Glory, but he'd kissed plenty of girls, but he'd never felt so alive as he did then, and he never wanted to be anywhere else. Hell, he didn't know what he'd done to ever deserve a girl like Mary, but right then, he swore he was the happiest man alive. His mind was overcome with this girl, and he internally felt as scared as she did, but he was certain about one thing, one thing he'd only ever thought he felt once with one other girl, but had mistaken—he was in love.

And he was fucking terrified.

When he pulled away, eyes searching Mary's, he realized that she was smiling at him, and hell, not even the blotched tears beneath her eyes or the dried snot inside her nose could shatter her beauty, he was positive. But there was still one problem, and that was Mary's aunt, the very woman who wouldn't allow the two of them to be together so long as Mary was in her custody and lived under her roof.

"I love you," he said, brushing her hair out of her face. "And I want to be with you, Mary." He let her go a little, lips pursing. "What about your aunt? Does she know—"

She shook her head, already knowing his question before he could finish it. "She doesn't know that I'm here. She sent me to get some groceries in town, but I came here instead," she admitted, cheeks tinting a shade. "I had to see you." Her brows knitted as she stared up at him. "Soda, I couldn't stand being away from you, and I know I sound like such a sappy girl, but—"

Soda chuckled good-naturedly. "You're beautiful, darlin'." He offered her another smile before a sigh escaped his lips, his hand running through his greasy hair. "We'll find a way to get around your aunt, Mary, I promise. We're gonna be together, and if I gotta climb your house to your window every other night just to see you, or whatever, I will."

The girl laughed at the mental image of her boyfriend climbing up into her room. Lord, but Aunt Vera would call the police, no doubt, and she would be paddled. Her aunt didn't care that she was a sixteen year old girl or not—that hadn't stopped her from slapping her, or using the paddle whenever she deemed it necessary. But Soda had given Mary a newfound feeling of courage, something she always felt incapable of experiencing. She wanted Soda as much as he wanted her, and she no longer cared about what her aunt had in store for her future. She would give up everything just to be with Soda.

From inside the garage, Steve was grinning to himself, having overheard a small portion of the intimate conversation. Oh, yeah . . . it was his turn to aim a few good jabs at his best buddy, and for the first time, he felt genuinely and wholeheartedly happy for him, even with the trouble he knew that Soda and Mary would endure if they were caught by the girl's aunt. He'd known that something was wrong, and he felt sorry for the two of them.

* * *

"Hey, sweets."

Ella flushed, glancing to her right as she stepped out of the laundromat for her lunch break. "Hey, hood," she responded with, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. She and Dallas had been together for three weeks almost, but she still felt nervous around him, and she wasn't sure why. "How was it out there at the stables?"

The blond's nose wrinkled. "Hot as hell. Real muggy this mornin', too." His arm swung around her shoulders as they began walking down to the corner store. "I hate doin' it, muckin' up horse shit." His fingers pressed a little into her arm, her body moving closer to his. "There's a bull riding event Friday night." A tight grin appeared on his lips. "Think I'm gonna enter."

"That's nice," she replied quietly, her gaze downcast. She didn't know how to tell Dallas that she wasn't exactly a fan of bull riding, especially since it was dangerous. But Dallas lived for action, lived for that kind of thing—he lived his life on the edge, which was something Ella wasn't quite used to. But when she was with him, she felt carefree and lively, and she liked it. "Bet you're looking forward to it."

"Sure am."

Ella smiled. She enjoyed being with Dallas when he was in a good mood, like this. She found that he was a lot calmer, even nice somewhat, and she preferred this side of him. But he could turn mean and nasty in the blink of an eye, and Ella had witnessed that on more than one occasion. Since he had given her his ring, though, there was a certain shift in the way he was around her that she had picked up on, subtle though it was. It wasn't so much that he was cordial to her or wholeheartedly pleasant, but he was . . . more decent around her—not that he was a gentlemen, because he was the farthest thing from. She didn't mind, though, for she enjoyed spending time with the notorious hoodlum, who was now her boyfriend, but there was always that lingering feeling of uneasiness, for Ella was nervous that Dallas would snap and fly off the handle at her, and that thought taunted her in the back of her mind. She hadn't braved telling her mother about Dallas and her, but she knew she had to, and soon.

Dallas opened the door, giving her a nudge forward as he walked in behind her. The inside of the store was cool, a nice and refreshing feeling compared to the outdoors. The temperature was beginning to drop as Autumn air started shifting into the atmosphere, though it was still significantly warm out, the morning dew muggy and dense. Ella hated the mornings more than anything, for the air would cause her hair to frizz out and look unbrushed, and by the time she saw Dallas in the afternoon for her lunch break, she looked ragged and gross. She couldn't wait until it cooled off more, as Ginger would leave the doors open and let the inside of the laundromat cool off dramatically, or so she'd heard from her co-worker Shannon.

The brown-haired girl breezed through the aisle as she browsed for a bottle of Dr. Pepper. She grabbed two of them, before making her way up to the counter, only to be stopped by Dallas. His glacier eyes were pools of iniquity, and Ella felt goosebumps forming across her arms as she considered what he was up to. Judging from his expression, she knew it wasn't anything good, and Ella despised the fact that her boyfriend took pleasure in doing things the illegal way. It made her feel bad, made her feel like she wasn't any good herself, and she immediately shook her head at him.

"We're not stealing anything, Dallas," she declared, shuffling passed him with a profound look of sheer determination—determination to not get lulled by Dallas's devilry charms. "I'll pay for the drinks."

The towheaded teen was smirking behind her as she made her way to the register. "Two packs of Kool, and Lights for the lady."

He glanced down at Ella, his eyes narrowing for a second as he studied her face before paying for the cigarettes and moving aside to let her pay for the drinks. He was still digesting the fact that Ella was his girlfriend, not that he cared all that much, but never in a million years did he think he'd be calling his former tutor—Dopey—his girl. A year ago he hadn't thought anything of her, except for the fact that she desperately needed a bushwhacker to do some work on her hair, but now, he didn't mind her so much. Thing was, he knew Ella wasn't very good looking—she was plain, but there was something about her that attracted him, and he wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps it was the fact that she wasn't easy, or that she provided him with a challenge. Ella wasn't the girl worth stealing anyway, not really, and he knew that—unless someone was looking for a domesticated, future house wife, then sure.

Dallas didn't pay much attention to Ella's appearance anymore, but he enjoyed getting a rise out of her, even more physically. It used to be about poking insults at her just to get her all hacked off so that she would come back at him, but now he liked getting her all worked up to see how far she'd let him get with her. But even that way, she was a fucking challenge, and Dallas wasn't quite used to waiting like that. Ella, though, wouldn't so much as let him kiss her good and hot, and the most he'd gotten with her was some light feeling up; she always stopped him a minute or so after he started groping her breasts. He wondered how long it would take to get her panties off and spice things up, but he knew it would take some time—Ella was too domesticated, but she was also headstrong and stubborn, and she had more control than what he'd given her credit for.

Yeah, yeah. Ella fucking Mitchell was his girl, had been for the past few weeks, and even walking out of the store with her by his side, he still couldn't believe it. He didn't even so much as like her as he didn't mind her, but that wasn't the point. They got along alright, and Ella kept him entertained, and that was all there was to it. Hell, maybe he'd just love her and leave her—he'd been part of the "Triple F" club for a while. (Feel'em, Fuck'em, Forget'em.) Or maybe, she'd leave him once she realized that he wasn't any good for her, that he wasn't what she thought he was. Either way, it didn't matter, and he didn't give a shit about what happened with them. For now, Ella was decent, and she had stuck by his side as a friend (or whatever) longer than most chicks were even in his life, so that was that.

"You stole something, didn't you." Her voice rang out beside him, a blatant accusation, her chin lifting as she glanced up at him on an angle, eyes fixed. That was another thing—Ella knew him pretty well, had started catching on to his antics. She rolled her eyes. "Dallas—"

"Relax, toots," he replied, cutting her off as they sat down on an outer window sill that belonged to an old and abandoned building. "I didn't steal nothin'."

Her nostrils flared, a sign that she was growing frustrated. "Really?"

"Nah," he answered devilishly. "You did." The response caught her off guard, and her eyes broadened instantaneously. But he continued on, packing his cigarettes before tearing the box open and lighting up casually. "Check your pockets, girly."

The look on Ella's face was almost comical, and Dallas swore that steam would be flowing out of her ears if it was possible. Glory, but she appeared livid, and he grinned as she felt around the pockets on the front of light blue dress, vexation flashing across her features as she pulled out a few candy bars and a package of gum. He didn't know whether to think he was that slick that he'd gotten three bars of candy and small pack of gum into her pocket, or if she was just that stupid that she didn't notice. But, either way, the fire in her eyes was fucking hysterical.

"Dallas Winston!" she growled out, throwing one of the bars at him. It had knocked the cigarette out of his mouth, but he didn't care, a dangerous smile forming on his mouth as he grabbed her wrists and yanked her forward roughly. "Dal—"

She was silenced as their lips crashed together hardly, knocking the air out of her. He kissed her hard, hard enough that it almost hurt, biting her lower lip a little before letting her go. Her skin was flushed, pupils dilated and enlarged, and he grinned cockily in her direction, purposely licking his own lips to taunt her. He liked her like this, though, hot and bothered—it was too easy to ruffle her feathers.

"I gotta git goin'," he said after a second. "I got shit to do."

Ella's brows raised as she stepped back to allow him to stand. "Where are you headed?"

His mouth twitched as he stared at her for a second or two. "To see Tim," he replied, bending down to grab the candy bar she'd thrown at him. "We got business to take care of." And then he tossed the bar back at her, eyes gleaming as she caught it with ease. "Eat that, would ya? It was free."

The girl watched him leave, arms folding around herself. Dallas was sporadic and fast moving, and sometimes, she wasn't always sure how to keep up with him. But she liked him, and she'd wanted to be with him for a long time. She knew she couldn't change him, and by Lord, she would never, ever try to do so, but sometimes she wished he was more . . . grounded. Hell, she thought, her lips turning down, but if she had been caught with the candy in her pocket . . .

She didn't even want to consider what would have happened.

* * *

Three more days and the school week would be over, Ponyboy thought as he made his way toward the exit. Well, at least Tuesdays were better than Mondays, or that's what he liked to tell himself, because as far as he was concerned, Mondays were the worst. The good thing was that he hadn't really gotten any homework, but then again, it was still only the first few weeks of school—he was sure he would be carrying his books home with him soon.

He didn't have a track meet that afternoon, which he was thankful for. He honestly just wanted to head home that afternoon and hangout until Soda got in. Usually, Soda got home before Darry, unless it was Saturday, to which Darry would be home first. Well, the red-headed teen thought absentmindedly, he would be the one making dinner that night. He went over the list of what they had to make, and decided that two chickens and mashed potatoes sounded good. Perhaps, if Soda was in the mood, he could help him whip up their mother's recipe of corn muffins—now that sounded delicious. It was funny that Soda over-sugared everything, but when it came to making their mother's corn muffins, there was nobody but Soda who could make them just right.

"Curtis!"

At the sound of his name, Ponyboy jerked around, brows furrowing at the sight of Curly Shepard who was headed in his direction, all thoughts of delicious corn muffins forgotten. It was strange to see Curly in school, but Ponyboy figured that it ought to be a good thing, meaning Curly wasn't in trouble. Still, Two-Bit was there to keep him company, but he missed seeing Ella in the library, or Dallas seeming to appear out of thin air around every corner, and even ol' miserable Steve. Hell, Two-Bit had been spending most of his time with Bridget Stevens anyway, so he was left alone, save for his own friends.

His attention turned to Curly as the two fell in step. "What's up, Shepard?"

The black-haired teen shrugged. "Nothin'. I can't wait to get the fuck outta here, though." His cynical eyes glared at the younger teen for a second. "Man, you walk slow. Let's git already, huh?"

"Sure," came the dull response, and Ponyboy shrugged. Curly was usually rough like that, though, even if he didn't mean it. It was from his home life, and Ponyboy was certain that some of his attitude and behavior issues evolved from the reformatory. He continued once they were outside. "How've you been?"

Curly jammed his hands into his pockets. "Fine. What about you, Curtis?" His voice was beginning to sound more like Tim's. "Ain't you 'bout to publish some book or somethin'?"

Ponyboy was genuinely surprised that Curly had bothered to ask, and the shock was evident on his face as he responded. "Yeah, some time soon, I guess. I just gotta talk to my publisher and turn in some consent forms before we move ahead with marketing."

"Tuff enough."

But before either teen could say anything else, both of them came to a halt as their gazes landed across the street at the one person everyone had been trying to track down. Curly's dark eyes narrowed into slits, and beside him, Ponyboy remained fixed. Not even twenty feet in front of them stood Dusty Lewis, leaning forward as he chatted aimlessly to somebody who looked vaguely familiar inside a '62 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. Ponyboy subconsciously brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight, his focus adjusting as he stared ahead. His jaw nearly dropped when he was able to see who the person was, an expression of shock plastering his face as he continued to stare in sheer bewilderment.

He considered telling Dallas before mentioning anything to Curly, but he didn't know if it was such a hot idea to tell the notorious hood that his girlfriend's ex-boyfriend was the one Dusty Lewis had been working for. And as Craig Bryant pulled away with Dusty Lewis in the passenger seat, he turned for only a second, and Ponyboy swore that Craig looked right at him.

 _Ya it ain't easy baby_

 _But it's only love_ — _and that's all_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	16. Perfumed with Obsession

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Lorde owns "The Louvre."**

* * *

 _Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue_

 _Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession_

 _Half of my wardrobe is on your bedroom floor_

 _Use our eyes, throw our hands overboard_

 **September 12, 1966**

Things had quieted down a lot since the issue with Dusty Lewis had been put to rest the previous week, and Ella was shocked to learn that her ex-boyfriend had been the culprit initiating everything with Dusty behind the scenes. There wasn't much to be done for Dusty, since Craig had paid his way out of town, but apparently, Craig had been taken care of, and Ella didn't want to know what that meant—not even Dallas had elaborated to her. However, Craig had left town—or so she'd heard—Saturday morning to head to college for the Fall semester. It wasn't exactly news that Jane Sloane had ditched him when she'd learned that he was only using her just a few weeks back, and Ella had almost laughed at the thought, but it didn't matter to her anymore than Craig did.

But it hadn't made any sense why Craig would "hire" this Dusty Lewis to work for him, and all Ella knew from Dallas was that Tim Shepard and Daxon Jones, some other gang leader, had put their own disputes aside and formulated a plan to find out about Dusty Lewis and track him down, which Dallas had been a part of. Other than that, Ponyboy and Curly had spotted Dusty and Craig talking last week, which led Tim Shepard and Daxon Jones straight to Craig's doorstep, in layman's terms. Whatever happened after that Ella didn't know, and truthfully, she didn't care to. Craig had been long out of her life, and as far as she was concerned, he was a ghost to her—one she didn't want to ever think about.

Ella suppressed a sigh, shaking her head at her thoughts. She was just glad that Dallas was no longer involved with anything that could potentially get him locked up. He hadn't visited her that afternoon at work, but she had another surprise visitor that she wasn't expecting. She and Dallas had been doing well together, but still, the alarming feeling that crept around her gut at the sight of his ex-girlfriend approaching her during her lunch break wasn't very pleasant.

The once mahogany-haired (now dyed platinum blond) girl glared down at Ella with distaste. "Ella, right?" she asked. "Ella Mitchell?"

The blue-eyed girl nodded. "Yes, and you're—"

"Cherie Peters," she said, cutting her off with a sassy expression. "You're dating Dally, ain't ya?"

Ella's lips pursed. She'd never spoken to Cherie directly before, and she really didn't want to start then, no way. She remembered seeing Cherie Peters for the first time at the bowling alley several months back, and she hadn't forgotten the older girl's snide remark regarding her, either. She really didn't want to have an issue with Cherie, though, but she wondered what she could want with her. Then again, it wasn't a secret that Cherie had been chasing Dally since he'd kicked her to the curb, although she was doing it very subtly.

"I am," she answered, expressing disinterest.

The smirk that crossed Cherie's lips was taunting, and Ella inwardly cringed. "Well, sugar, just be real careful, 'cause Dally ain't one to stick around, ya hear?" She chuckled, but the sound was unfriendly, a warning lurking beneath the surface. "He's only gonna want you 'til you offer up your goods, and then you ain't gonna so much as be worth the shit on the bottom of his boots."

Ella's arms folded across her middle as she stared at Cherie, doing her best to seem unfazed. "Thanks for the message, Cherie, but I really don't have time for nonsense." Grabbing her thermos, she turned on her heel. "Have a good day."

But Cherie's voice rang out from behind her, scratchy and impatient. "Just you wait and see, sugar. You ain't worth nothin' to him. Dally don't stick with goody-two-shoes like you, and besides, you ain't nothin' real special . . ."

That was all Ella heard as she stepped inside the laundromat, brows furrowed, a frown on her lips. She couldn't help the thoughts that had been plaguing her mind—Cherie's words, to be exact—and she had to wonder if Dallas would just toss her aside if she ever gave it up to him. A shiver crept up her spine, nagging at her that Dallas Winston wasn't a good guy, and eventually, he would grow tired of her. There was no winning with him, she supposed, but she'd known what she was getting into the moment she agreed to be his girl.

* * *

Ponyboy had officially been assigned Two-Bit's tutor, and to be quite honest, his rusty-haired friend couldn't express anymore enthusiasm than he was right then. Ponyboy rolled his eyes as the two of them entered the library for study hall, making their way to the back tables to hangout for the next period, which Ponyboy enjoyed. However, Two-Bit's yapping was getting on his nerves, and no matter how much of his buddy he was, Two-Bit was getting awfully annoying.

". . . so I says to her, Bee, honey, you really oughtta paint it a different color." He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Hell, kid, pink has gotta be the worse damn color there is."

Ponyboy sighed, dropping his books on the table. "Well, it's her room, Two-Bit."

"And don't she let me know it," came the quick response. "Man, you ever seen the Stevens's house, kid? Shoot, that place could fit my house in it three times over and there'd still be room."

Glory, but Ponyboy could imagine it. He'd heard enough times from Soda that Steve said that Evie told him about Bridget's house—and it was the epitome of immaculate. Apparently, it was quite the mansion of the West side, or so Evie had relayed. Ponyboy wasn't so sure, but he'd never seen Bridget's house in person before; he was sure it was something, though.

"You hear about—"

But Two-Bit already knew what the younger teen was going to ask. "Dusty Lewis and Co.?" He rested his chin between his thumb and index finger as he leaned forward on the table. "Dally had somethin' to say about it." A nod. "Yeah, Craig Bryant and him were trying to start shit, attempting to get the Kings and Shepard's crew against each other, or somethin' like that anyway." He shrugged. "I try to stay outta that crap, kid, but I hear all the gossip 'round here, it seems." And then he laughed. "Shoot, I make it a point to be in on a little bit of this, and a little bit of that."

Ponyboy made a face. "I thought that the Kings were selling dope in Tim's territory."

"Yeah, somethin' like that, Ponykid, somethin' like that," Two-Bit responded absently. "Look, I don't know much about it myself, 'cause ol' Dally seemed a little . . . quiet himself, and I wouldn't go around askin' about it, either, you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you," he answered, a bewildered look on his face. It didn't make sense to him why Dusty would want to involve himself with Craig Bryant, or why Craig was even trying to rival two notorious gangs from the East side against each other. Hell, that was like asking for a death wish, and Ponyboy figured that Craig had bailed out of town as quickly as he could—save for college. But there had to be something more, something none of them knew—not even Dally. But he dropped those thoughts, like Two-Bit suggested he did. "I hope things stay like they are."

Across from him, Two-Bit chuckled. "That'll be the day, huh?"

And Ponyboy sighed, slumping down in his chair a little. Yeah, that _would_ be the day, he thought with a bitter expression, because nothing was ever quiet on their side of town. Well, at least the issue with Dusty Lewis was resolved, and he was glad that he told Dallas about seeing him the other week, glad that Craig was out of town and wouldn't be back for quite some time. Still, the looming thought of something happening wouldn't dissolve from his mind, and the fifteen year old had a bad feeling swirling around the pit of his gut.

"Earth to Ponyboy!" Two-Bit called out, snapping his fingers in front of the younger boy's face. When his attention was on Two-Bit, he continued on. "You zoning out on me already? Hell, I only asked you when you were getting that book of yours published . . ."

A shrug. "I'm still waiting for Dallas."

Two-Bit looked appalled. " _Still?_ Man, I'll get his consent for you." A smirk. "I'll get him so boozed up, he'll sign his name off, no problem."

"Right," came the bland response, and then a sigh. "I really want him to read it, no matter how things end. He needs to know. I think that's what . . . what Johnny would want." He leaned forward suddenly, but his posture was loose. "He kept Johnny's letter this whole time, you know that?"

"I believe it," Two-Bit replied. "You know, kid, Johnny meant a lot to ol' Dally. I mean, I know he's got his ways an' all, but—"

Ponyboy nodded. "I know."

"You know, Bee's worried about Ella." At that, Ponyboy's eyes widened, and Two-Bit looked almost serious. "She thinks Ella's gon' end up hurt, and hell, I don't get involved with anyone's love life, but I gotta agree with Bee, Ponyboy. Ella's askin' for trouble bein' with Dallas, and she's a nice gal, despite bein' all law abiding."

"She likes him, though."

The rusty-haired teen shook his head. "She's gotta get her eyes checked or something . . . either that or get a psych evaluation . . ."

* * *

Darry didn't really ever give out romantic advice, especially to his kid brothers. He'd always known Soda to take matters into his own hands and do whatever he thought was best, but then again, he'd also never seen Sodapop so pent up over a girl, either. Mary was changing him, Darry was certain, and he didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. From what he'd gathered about Mary DeVaney from both hearing and speaking to her himself, she was a decent girl—and sure, she was from the upper class side of town, but Darry would be lying if he said he'd never dated a Soc girl.

But Soda . . . was different. Sure Soc girls flocked around him day in and day out, and even being with Sandy Vincent back in the day never stopped them from trying to gain his attention. But ever since Mary had entered the picture, Soda's eyes were only for her. But listening to his younger brother's worries over this girl made Darry feel almost sorry for the two of them, and truthfully, he didn't know what to do for his brother.

". . . and her aunt don't want me anywhere around her," Soda was saying, a frustrated look on his face as he placed his chin in his hand. "What do you think I should do, Dar?"

The oldest Curtis brother sighed, unsure of how to answer. "You really like this girl, don't you?"

Soda nodded, glum like. "Yeah, I really do." A shrug. "But I don't know what to do, Darry. Mary wants to be with me, too, and . . . shoot, but her aunt is trying to keep us apart." A frown appeared on his lips as his gaze focused on the kitchen table. "It's because I'm a greaser, that's it. She don't think I'm good enough for her niece, and hell, maybe she's right, Darry, but I don't wanna give up on Mary." And then he glanced up at his brother, a crease forming on his forehead. "You know, I've been thinkin' a lot, and well, maybe . . . maybe I _should_ just let her go. She deserves better than me anyway."

Darry exhaled hardly. He'd always been more hard-headed than both of his brothers, and it was these types of conversations that irked him to no end. Truthfully, he hated when people put themselves down like that, but Soda always seemed to have a bad habit of doing so, almost like he was feeling sorry for himself, only he wasn't. But Soda had always been the type to get attached, too, a trait he got from their father. Darry and Ponyboy were more level like their mother, and hell, Darry didn't know what to do in this predicament. But listening to his kid brother belittle himself was something he wasn't going to tolerate—no sirree bub.

"Listen, Pepsi-Cola," he began, rubbing his hands over his face, "I think you and Mary ought to work something out. If you and her can't be together because of her aunt, then find a way to get passed her if that's what you want."

Soda stared at him blankly. "So you think we should sneak around, then?"

"If that's what you gotta do," came the surprising response. "Hell, Soda, I've never been in a situation like this before, but if I really liked a gal, like you with Mary, I sure as hell wouldn't let her aunt stand in my way, wrong or not." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, maybe you could get Evie, or maybe—" He paused, trying to remember Ponyboy's friend's name, or Dallas's girlfriend. What was it again? Eleanor? Elsie? Ella! Ella, that was it. "Or maybe you could ask Ella to . . . improvise, you know, make it look like Mary and one of them are hanging out, and then you meet up with her."

The golden-haired teen perked up instantly. Well, that was one way to go about things—use Ella or Evie to get Mary out of the house to make it look like she was hanging with her female friends, and then he could meet up with her. That wasn't a bad idea at all, but would Evie or Ella go for it? He figured it would only take a few times for Aunt Vera to just assume that Mary had friends other than just himself, and if that was the case, perhaps their plan could work for a while.

Looking at Darry, he nodded appreciatively. "That ain't such a bad plan, Darry. I'll have to see if either of them would be willing to go for it, see if they can get the message to Mary."

"Just be careful, buddy," Darry warned, shooting him a look. For a moment, he wasn't sure that he'd given his brother the right advice, but he really hoped for the best for him. Really, he just wanted things to go back to the way they were—before all this nonsense occurred. "Let me know how it works out for you, kiddo."

Soda smiled. "Will do." And as he stood up to head out back to work now that his break was over, he sent a nod of gratitude toward his brother. "Oh, and Darry? Thanks a lot."

* * *

Evie was staring at Ella with a shocked look. "So you're tellin' me that Cherie hassled you at work all because she's mad that you're with Dally?" She shook her head. "I'm tellin' ya, that one's got a bolt loose or somethin' . . ."

Ella's lips pursed. "Well, she didn't hassle me, exactly." A sigh. "I don't know what her problem is. I haven't seen her since . . . well, since forever ago."

"Hmm," the brunette hummed, sipping at her chocolate shake. She was glad the school day was over, but spending her time before work talking about how much of a sleaze Cherie Peters was wasn't what she had in mind. Still, she was worried about Ella, too. Hell, at the beginning of the Summer she had used Dallas Winston as a means to lure Ella out to have some fun, but now that they were actually together—in a relationship—she was concerned. Oh, she trusted Ella's judgment for herself, but she didn't trust Dallas, not with her friend, she didn't. As for Cherie, she felt that bimbo was just looking for trouble, and of course, who was better to start with than Ella? "Just ignore her," she suggested, crossing her arms over her chest. "She ain't worth nothin' but trouble."

"Oh, I will," Ella said, voice firm. "I don't need to get myself involved with any of that nonsense."

Evie grinned. "Good for you."

"So, how're things with you and Steve?"

"Great," the younger girl answered almost immediately, eyes sparking at the mention of her boyfriend's name. "You know, I've been thinkin' . . . and wouldn't it be fun if we double dated?" And then her face lit up. "Or we could even quadruple date, huh? You, me, Mary, and Bridget."

Ella's brows raised at the idea. That would be something, she thought. Yeah, she could just imagine that scenario in her mind—Steve and Dallas would probably get bored and want to head out, and Soda and Two-Bit would be dancing with their girls well into the night. But it _would_ be something, and Ella was sure it would be a night filled with fun. Speaking of fun, she hadn't done anything concerning that particular word in a while, well except for being with Dallas, but their time together was often limited since she worked during the days and he took care of the horses down at the stables and did whatever else—whatever else meaning taking care of "business" with Tim Shepard or whoever, and leaving her having to wait to hear from him . . . etc.

But Evie continued on, interrupting her thoughts. "Thing is, Soda's been tellin' Steve that he and Mary are having issues. I guess her aunt don't want them together or somethin'." She shrugged, twirling her straw around. "I don't know about you, but her aunt sounds like a real witch."

And Ella, for all her worth, busted out laughing. Evie always had a wicked way of describing people, even once calling Vickie Harper's cousin Beatrice Preston a gargoyle for her choice in fashion. Evie had always been rather . . . obnoxious, a trait she—on occasion—shared with her boyfriend, but Ella knew that she didn't really mean any harm—that was just her being . . . well, herself.

"I can't imagine why her aunt is so uptight like that," she said, taking a sip of her own shake. "Soda is such a nice guy." She made a face. "I could understand if he was like—"

"Dallas?" Evie guessed, smirking. "I'll bet she'd chase him straight off her property with a broom." And then she jerked her chin in her friend's direction. "You ever gonna tell your mom about you and Dally?"

The older girl's cheeks tinted out of embarrassment. "Soon. I just haven't . . . found the courage to say anything." She grimaced a little. "But I know I have to tell her, and I will." She sighed, then, suddenly looking down. "My mother doesn't like him, and when she found out I'd been tutoring him, she had a fit, and believe me, it wasn't pretty."

Evie cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I mean, can you blame her, Ella?"

"No," the brown-haired girl replied glumly. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table as she rested her chin in her hands. "Sometimes I worry about being with Dallas, too, but I . . . I really like him, and I enjoy being with him when he's not . . . doing stupid stuff." At Evie's inquisitive look, she continued on, a desperate sound in her voice. "He stopped by to visit me at work last Tuesday, and well, he stole some candies from the corner shop down the street, but that wasn't even the point. He hid them in my pocket and let me walk out with them, so technically, I stole them."

She sounded upset, but Evie had heard shit like this from Sylvia before, so it was nothing new to her ears. Besides, what else had Ella expected from a guy like Dallas Winston? Evie would be surprised if she expected anything lavish from him, like concern over her feelings or any of that crap. Hell, Steve got harsh with her, but the difference was that Evie stood up to him, and besides, Steve wasn't like Dallas, either—he was more gentle with her. Dallas wasn't like that, and he never would be, and Evie had a feeling that Ella was in for a rocky ride with the hood she was dating, probably a real wake up call, to be frank.

"Well, that's the thing with Dallas, Ella," she decided to say. "He don't give a Yankee dime about anyone but himself, remember that. Maybe he does like ya, but he surely don't respect you that much if he's gonna pull shit like that." She took a sip of her melting shake. "Just something to think about."

Ella nodded. "I know, and I appreciate you looking out for me, Evie."

"'Course," the brunette replied, and feigned a grin. "So . . . about that quadrupedal date . . ."

* * *

Ella danced lightly around her room later that night, her sleeveless white nightgown billowing out around her petite frame to the sound of The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love". She silently mouthed the words, turning her bed back as she did, a small smile on her face. She was in a particularly good mood all evening, Evie having put the idea of a quadrupedal date in her mind. The only thing that was worrying her was her mother's reaction to finding out that her daughter was romantically involved with Dallas Winston, the notorious hoodlum whom she deemed a dangerous person—not someone to be anywhere around her daughter.

The song came to a finish, and Ella turned to place the record back in its case just as someone tapped against her side window. Her heart instantly beat a little harder, knowing who was lurking around out there, her lips curving upward. Dallas had made a few nightly visits to her room since they'd made it official between them, but he never stayed too long. Only once had he ever spent the night, and that was back when he was laying low from the cops, but Ella hadn't even seen him in the morning, for he was gone before she had stirred awake.

She pushed the window up, watching as he effortlessly eased himself into her bedroom, his hardened face contorted into an impish expression. He bent down to peck her lips quickly, before taking a seat on her bed, leaving her to close the window and the curtains behind herself. The air hit her skin, and she shivered a little—it was cool out, the temperature beginning to drop as Autumn loomed just around the corner.

"You didn't stop by to see me today," she said, taking a seat beside him. Her tone was anything but upset, though, for Ella always looked forward to seeing Dallas when he stopped by. "Were you at the stables?"

"Nah," he answered leisurely, leaning forward to crack her front window so that he could light up a cigarette. "I had business to take care of."

Her brows furrowed. "With Tim?" she guessed, almost sounding upset. She wasn't, though, not really, but she worried about Dallas and his ways, and she really hoped that he wasn't up to no good. "I just missed you is all," she continued. "No one else annoys me there . . ."

The blond's mouth twitched as he inhaled, smoke flowing out of his mouth. "I'll bet you missed me, sweets."

She swatted his arm lightly as he offered her a drag of his cigarette, watching as she took it from his hand and inhaled. From how close she was, the smell of her shampoo and soap was radiating straight into his nostrils, mixing in with the smoke from the cigarette. Taking a drag after her, he could taste her minty toothpaste, too, and he leaned over to stub it out in the small, blue ashtray on her night table. Her mother was opposed to her smoking, so Ella hardly ever smoked in the house, and if she did, she kept the window open and would dump the ashtray in the garbage afterward.

Ella jumped a little as Dallas's arm looped around her waist, tugging her closer, her body turning as his other hand cupped her face. His kisses were always rough, but there had been a few occasions where he'd kissed her more patiently, and Ella liked those moments the best. So when his lips pressed against hers almost gently, a breathless moan escaped her lips, and she inched closer to him, reaching up to twine her fingers into his hair and play with the curls at the nape of his neck. He'd let her do that once or twice, but never for too long. Ella had come to learn that Dallas wasn't very compassionate or romantic, but he sometimes expressed a nicer side, though it was mostly when he thought he was getting into her pants or something. Resisting was becoming a challenge for Ella, though, and when the blond's tongue weaved into her mouth, she could hardly bring herself to care that his hand, which had been cupping her cheek, was fondling her chest.

This is where she usually stopped him, but this particular night, she was feeling a little brave, so she let him continue, only becoming nervous when she felt him pushing the straps down her arms. Her breath hitched in her throat, her stomach instantly swarming with butterflies, and when she felt him touch her bare chest, her body froze at the contact.

"You want me to stop?" he asked, voice gruff and husky.

She was quiet for a second before answering. "I—" Pause. "I don't know." Her gaze landed on her hands, studying her fingers and nail-beds and wondering how they were so reddened. Glory, but she could feel the heat on her cheeks, feel the warmth spreading throughout her body and pooling down into one particular area, her thighs instantly squeezing together. She swallowed the lump in her throat, shifting a little, all feelings of bravery absent. "I thought that I—"

But Dallas pulled away from her, turning to light another cigarette and wishing that he had a weed or something. Beside himself, Ella was fumbling with her night dress or whatever, desperately trying to cover the upper half of her body and make herself decent again. Dallas didn't know how to deal with this shit—all the chicks he'd been with were either as desperate as him, or once they were ready, or charmed enough, they would offer it up. Damn, Ella really knew how to spoil the fucking mood, didn't she? Hell, maybe if he hadn't opened his fucking mouth, he could have gotten something out of her, but then again, he had felt her stiffen up, her body instantaneously tensing in his hold, and there was no way he could continue anything if she couldn't even respond positively.

"Here," he said, thrusting the cancer stick in her direction.

She took a drag, and the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. But golly, Ella felt like a blasted fool, stupid even. She didn't know why she froze up, or why Dallas had such an effect on her, like whenever he touched her, she was boiling hot beneath the surface, goosebumps littering her skin and causing her to feel things she didn't know she was capable of feeling.

She passed the cigarette back to him, a little lightheaded from the menthol. "Are you mad?"

His mouth wrinkled. "Naw, I ain't mad, kid." He turned to her then, countenance critical save for the smirk on his lips. "Just ain't quite . . . used to this, savvy?"

Ella, nervous though she was, chuckled lightly, unsure of what to say. She was surprised that Dallas would admit such a thing, even to her, but then again, she figured that he probably wasn't used to girls like her—at all. The two were quiet for a while before Dallas began talking about the rodeo ending in a few more weeks. He would only participate in a few more events, but that was it. He'd been spending a lot of time training Artemis, hoping to get her in the final jockeying event later that month. Ella was excited for him, but she still felt off and flustered from earlier, so while Dallas spoke about what was going on with the races, she only listened, hardly saying anything at all. Only when her boyfriend was finished speaking did she bring up her own non-eventful day, well, not including Cherie, which is what she'd wanted to speak to him about.

She took a breath, and watched from her peripheral as Dallas folded his arms behind his head, leaning back on the wall. He looked like he was ready to bail, but Ella knew he wasn't one to really stay in one place for too long; he was always on the move.

"I ran into you ex today," she divulged lowly, keeping her eyes straight. "Cherie Peters, I mean. She came by the laundromat while I was on break and warned me about you."

The blond cocked an eyebrow. "Warned you, huh?"

"Yeah, she told me that . . . well, that you're using me," she admitted, licking her lips.

He rolled his eyes, disinterested. He didn't give a shit about Cherie Peters or anything she did, and he was glad to learn that Ella wasn't a dramatic broad, having ignored Cherie and whatever she had to say to her. Hell, wasn't it something, he thought, bemused. Ella's ex and his own ex were out looking to start shit, but Craig Bryant was another matter entirely—one which had been resolved. Dallas hadn't so much as stuck his nose in it, but he knew from Shepard what had happened, and it was nothing that Ella needed to know about. No, he didn't think she had a right to be in on that shit, especially when Craig wasn't anything to her and the situation had nothing to do with her.

Oh, yeah, he'd heard that Craig got his ass pulverized, but ol' Fish-Eyes still ran outta town to college with his tail between his legs, the prick. Even if Dusty fucking Lewis got out of town, too, they had been found out, and the issue had been taken care of. The only thing Dallas knew was that Tim and Daxon had a feud to settle, but that was between them, although he'd be there for Tim if he needed some backup. Still . . . it was almost comical—Craig and Cherie almost deserved each other.

". . . but it wasn't a big deal," Ella finished, shrugging her shoulders, arms wrapped tightly around her middle. "I just figured you ought to know about it."

Dallas didn't respond to her, only offered her the rest of the cigarette before moving to stand up. "I'll swing by and see you tomorrow if I get time, yeah?" He stared down at her, taking in her flushed cheeks and insecure expression. "I gotta run."

She nodded, wondering if he really was that upset with her from before. "Where are you going?"

"Workin' for Buck tonight," came the blunt answer. And with that, he climbed out her window, leaving her to follow after him to close it again.

She poked her head out instead, though. "I'm sorry about . . . what happened."

He pursed his lips, nodding once to her before disappearing into the night. Ella was left alone in her bedroom, the smell of Dallas's cigarettes being the only reminder that he was ever there in the first place.

 _A rush at the beginning_

 _I get caught up, just for a minute_

 _But lover, you're the one to blame, all that you're doing_

 _Can you hear the violence?_

* * *

 **There's a lot happening here, isn't there?**

 **As always, thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! Y'all are truly wonderful! :3**


	17. Throw It Back to You

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Oasis owns "Wonderwall."**

* * *

 _Today is gonna be the day_

 _That they're gonna throw it back to you_

 _By now you should've somehow_

 _Realized what you gotta do_

 **September 16, 1966**

Dallas watched Artemis trot around the pen, a dull look on his face. He wasn't in the mood to clean the stables or tend to the horses that day, hardly feeling up to anything. Then again, it was barely six in the morning, and he hadn't exactly slept well the night before, his mind twisted with images depicting a shadowy figure reaching out for him as flames engulfed his body, the sound of wailing and gun shots echoing through his ears, and then the pain searing across his body and jerking him around as he collapsed to the ground, only to jump awake in bed, sweat dampening his skin and running down his face and neck.

He knew damn well what the fuck those dreams were, and he had a sickening urge to pack whatever of his belongings he had with him—which wasn't much—and get the fuck outta Dodge. He didn't want to look back and reconcile with his past, he didn't want to think about Johnny or that godforsaken book that Ponyboy had written. In fact, he wasn't sure that he really wanted to give his consent for his name to be used in that fucking thing, either. But everyone knew what had happened, that he had nearly died that night one year ago after knocking off a store out of grief. Fuck.

And then he froze, blinking as he remembered that night. It was only a week and a half shy of a year ago, and Dallas felt a cool sensation creeping along his spine as he recalled Johnny's pale stricken face as he died in the hospital, the look of shock etched across Ponyboy's countenance, and the bitter anger that surged through his veins as he took off, leaving the kid behind without so much as a look back over his shoulder at him. Goddamn it.

Before he could clear his thoughts, his fist rammed into the side of the pen, the skin cracking open at the impact, blood beginning to trail through his fingers and drip down onto the ground. Nostrils flaring in annoyance, the nearly white-haired teen swiftly wiped his hand off on the side of his jean jacket, ignoring the tear that desperately needed to be patched up. Yeah, he would get to that some time, some time meaning when he felt the need to actually get to it.

"Hey! You!"

Dallas jerked around, brows pressed together at the sight of two cowboys approaching him. They were easily older—one with slicked back sandy colored hair, and the other with a head of black curls. If the teen had to guess, he would put them both in their forties, or close to. They didn't look like pleasant characters, but then again, Dallas himself didn't look like a nice guy, either. The one in front stopped within a few feet from him, the curly-haired one standing just behind him. Up close, Dallas could tell that neither of these two were up to any good, the one closest to him harboring a look that meant business—he wasn't there for pleasantries.

"What do you two need?" he asked, eyeing them both coolly.

The one in front answered. "You Dallas Winston?"

"Who's askin'?"

Front Man smirked, making a sound like a chuckle while jerking his chin back toward his buddy. "I'm Dwayne Mitchell, and this here's my partner, Cody Burns." He nodded toward Artemis, who had come to a stop behind Dallas, trying to sniff for a treat in his pocket. "I'm 'fraid there's been a little bit of a misunderstandin'," he continued, rubbing his chin while moving another step forward. "Ya see, tha' horse right there wasn't meant to be sold, there was some sorta mix up at the rodeo, and uh, well now, tha' horse belongs to me."

By the time he finished his explanation, he was only a foot away from Dallas, staring at him intently, pale blue eyes focused on him. Dallas, though, was too busy considering the man's name—Dwayne Mitchell. Mitchell. Ella Mitchell. He looked the man over, wondering if there was any sort of relation to Ella, but he wasn't gonna ask. This clown looked like he'd been through the mill and back ten times over, a weathered look to his face, eyes round and uneasy, a hardened exterior mingled with distrust, resentment, and a bitter disposition.

He straightened up, hands placed inside his pant pockets, expression neutral. "I won this horse fair and square, so unless y'all got some proof . . ." He shrugged. "Afraid I can't help you's."

Dwayne's face twisted savagely, and he loosened the handkerchief around his neck. "Hear that, Cody?" he called back to his partner. "Boy says he can't help us." His tongue ran over his teeth before he spit in the grass to his left. His hand moved inside his jacket, and when he pulled it back out into the open, Dallas found a gun aimed at himself. Dwayne's lips curved. "I don't think you heard me quite clearly when I said that's my horse. Now"—He cocked the gun—"I can either shoot you here and now, or you can move outta my way and give me that horse."

The blond merely stared at him, almost unfazed by his actions. Dallas lived for any form of danger, looked it straight in the face with a smile of his own. He'd had guns aimed at him before, had been shot nearly to death, so this wasn't anything new to him. Truthfully, he thought this man's story was a crock of shit, and he had absolutely no intention of handing Artemis off to him. No. That Mustang belonged to him—he had won her, he had trained her, and she was his. But before he could relay any of that, Buck Merril made an appearance, swaggering up to the scene as Dwayne placed the gun back in the waistband of his pants. Buck crossed his arms over his chest, a toothpick hanging off his bottom lip, eyes narrowed as he studied Dwayne and Cody.

"What do you boys want?" he inquired, though he didn't sound the slightest bit friendly.

Dwayne sneered. "Came for my horse." And then he gave Buck the same story he'd given Dallas only minutes ago, adding that it had taken him a month to track Dallas down. ". . . so's I'm leavin' with her, and y'all best step aside. We don't want any trouble, do we, Cody?"

Cody shook his head, but he was grinning. "No we don't."

"Well," Buck drawled, "I'm afraid I can't let you leave with this horse so long as you don't got any documentation statin' that she belongs to ya." He breathed in, rubbing at the side of his nose. "That horse was registered in a rodeo event as a prize for the winner over a month ago, and she's been owned by Dallas since, so if you ain't got the proof, I can't help y'all."

The man was scowling, vexation written in his bitter irises, but it was Cody who responded. "You can't do that."

"I can, 'matter of fact," Buck stated firmly. "Right now, that horse belongs to Dallas Winston, and she's on Merril property, so I'm gonna ask you boys to leave before we have a problem here." His chin raised a little. "If y'all git some credentials, come back and we'll talk, but until then, that horse ain't goin' nowhere with you."

Dwayne scowled. "She wasn't ever registered."

"Every horse is accounted for in those events," Dallas pointed out, clearly aggravated. He wasn't in the mood for this shit. "If you didn't register her, she ain't yers."

"Unless they's free game, they ain't registered." His eye twitched. "If you git me."

Buck remained fixed, though. "Then they're free game, as you said. Now—"He nodded passed both him and Cody—"I'll ask you for the last time to git off this property."

But the older man offered him and Dallas one fair warning, firing his gun at the sky. Artemis took off in a run around the pen, clearly spooked, and Dallas ground his teeth, wanting nothing more than to just sock this fucker straight in the teeth.

"We'll be back," Dwayne said, and then he and Cody stalked away, leaving Dallas and Buck behind to watch them until they couldn't see them anymore.

Buck only cocked an eyebrow at the teen before making his way back inside the stable. Dallas's eyes were icy and hard, and he considered asking Ella about her father, having never heard anything about the man before. He pictured her in his mind, probably just about arriving at the laundromat, a tired look on her face. She'd hardly ever divulged anything about her family, not even her mother, but now he couldn't help but wonder . . .

* * *

". . . and hell, Angela was tellin' Ella that she's all mad at Tim, 'cause he was doin' some kinda business with Daxon Jones, or whoever, to take care of that Dusty fellow." Evie took a breath, dipping her brush in the water cup, the paint running down and turning the once clear liquid green and murky. "I don't get that girl, though, and even more than that, I don't know how in the hell Ella and her are friends, well, if Angela even considers Ella a friend."

Across from her, Ponyboy simply nodded along, unsure of what to say. Having Evie Martin as his art partner required not only working with her on their first semester project, but listening to her yap away until he was certain that she would end up drinking from the dirty water cup from her mouth drying out. Heck, but not even Two-Bit rambled like that, and running his mouth was a quality of his that he was almost notorious for. But Evie? She talked and talked and talked . . . and Ponyboy was positive that he could go deaf just listening to her.

(No wonder Steve was often so cranky.)

"But," Evie continued, causing the younger teen to exhale through his nose hardly, "Ella always had this blatant way of drawing one in." Her brows pressed together as she considered her words. "I mean after you get to know her a little."

"She's a good person," Ponyboy replied quietly, easily running his brush over his painting. Truthfully, he didn't care who Ella was friends with, but he had to agree with Evie about Angela Shepard—she wasn't exactly a solid choice for a good friend. But, again, he didn't really care. Nor did he care that Angela was upset over Tim siding with Daxon Jones in order to take care of Dusty Lewis. "I'm sure Angela will get over herself."

Evie snorted. "Yeah, right. That'll be the day."

Honestly, the brunette wasn't sure why she was telling Ponyboy about any of this, but she had found that he was easy to talk to, or get through to. She could see why Ella and him got on so well—they were practically one in the same, except that Ponyboy was still a lot younger and wasn't as . . . mature, to put it nicely. But Evie was growing to consider the younger teen a friend, even if he and Steve didn't always get along that well. That was just too bad. Backtracking to her earlier thoughts, Evie didn't know how in the almighty universe that Ella put up with Angela Shepard, because as far as she was concerned, that chick was a wicked brat at best. On the other hand, Angela was also smart. She had the brains of a mastermind manipulator, and nothing escaped her tiger-like eyes.

But she agreed with Ponyboy, too. Angela would get over herself in time, if she found something new to whine about, that is. Evie chuckled to herself, shaking her head at the thought. Then again, she couldn't exactly blame Angela for being upset with her brother for "getting along" with the same guy who had one of his gang members jump her. But that was the thing—Tim was smart, too . . . where it counted, and while Evie was sure that it pissed the guy off that he had to work fairly with Daxon Jones, he had been trying to take care of an issue, an issue meaning Dusty Lewis. But it was all over and done with now, and nobody cared . . . except for Ponyboy, who had once mentioned that he thought there was more to Dusty Lewis (besides working with Craig Bryant—gross) than anyone knew. Oh well.

Mrs. Girdlé bounded over to Evie's and Ponyboy's shared table, eyeing their work with interest. "And what are you two creating?"

Ponyboy smiled as he glanced up at the woman. "I think we're still trying to figure it out." He glanced at Evie's paper, making a face at the green blotches that were supposed to be trees. "We were thinking of expressing the fundamental struggles of every day life, but showing that there's still good in all of it, even if it's not in the way you'd imagine."

The teacher was grinning, lips spread widely across her face. "What an excellent concept!" Her eyes then landed on the green blotches Ponyboy had been staring at. "And, Miss Martin, what a lovely idea you're going for, too! I just love the perspective of money trees . . ."

As she walked away, Evie cocked an eyebrow at her younger companion. "That's what we're making?" she questioned, and inspected her nails, a frown on her mouth at the green dot overlapping her blue polish. "Thanks for the head's up."

Ponyboy shrugged. "I didn't know you were making money trees."

She frowned. "Me, either . . ."

* * *

Ella stood on Mary's porch, an anxious feeling swirling around the pit of her stomach. She had agreed to help Soda and Mary see each other by using herself as a diversion of sorts. After hearing all about Mary's aunt from both Soda and Ponyboy, Ella decided that she would help both of her friends. At first, Soda had suggested both Evie and Ella together for the plan, but Steve had some input on that, saying that Evie—even though he loved her—would most likely spoil everything. Besides, it wasn't like Evie really could look the part of what would be acceptable to Aunt Vera. On the other hand, however, Ella had the mediocre look of a very plain and bland girl—one who didn't exactly paint her face, or wear skimpy attire, not that Steve had any sort of issue with Evie's mode of dress—no way.

But Ella had agreed, and so here she stood, waiting for someone to answer the door. And she didn't wait that long, for the lock turned, the door swinging open to reveal a tall and slender, brooding looking woman who gave off a vibe demanding full respect. She glared down at Ella, immediately taking in the girl's outfit, which consisted of a long purple skirt and a white button-up blouse with a few flowers on it that was tucked in. Her hair was pulled back, hanging loosely in a straightened ponytail that reached the top of her rear.

She smiled shyly. "Good evening," came the greeting. "I'm Ella Mitchell, a friend of Mary's. Is she home?"

The woman took one more look at her, before opening the door wider and beckoning her inside. "Wait in the parlor, please. Mary will be here in a moment."

Ella did as she was asked, stepping into the room quietly. Her eyes darted in every which way, taking in the interior of the house with mesmerized eyes. Glory, but if she thought Bridget Stevens's house was something—and by golly it was—this was something else. The brown-haired teen couldn't contain the expression of surprise that blanketed her features at the grandness of Mary's home. Good Lord, but Soda hadn't been joking at all, and Ella wished that Evie was there with her to witness this.

"Ella?"

She turned on her heel, nodding once to Mary with a small grin. "Hi, Mary."

"Good evening," she replied, clearing her throat as her aunt stepped in behind her. Her eyes widened a little as she looked at her friend, a nervous expression on her face. "Aunt Vera, this is Ella Mitchell, a friend I met at the library. Ella, this Vera DuPres, my aunt."

Ella had picked up the silent command, and nodded again to the older woman. "How do you do?"

"Well. Thank you," Aunt Vera answered, inspecting Ella with a delicate eye. "I understand you two have plans to attend a movie. Is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ella responded, instantly feeling small. She could see why Soda didn't like this woman, why Mary often appeared so nervous. Aunt Vera was a very intimidating figure, one whose eyes alone could shatter glass from the brisk and scrutinizing aura they reflected. She could feel her studying her, calculating her next move, or next answer, and Ella felt her hands clamming up. "We were also discussing grab— I mean, stopping for dinner . . . if that's alright with you."

Aunt Vera cast her gaze down at her niece. "I suppose," she confirmed cordially. "But Mary is to be home no later than nine o'clock, is that clear?"

Both girls nodded eagerly, and Ella itched to get out of that house as quickly as possible. Mary thanked her aunt, and with one last look of scrutiny at Ella, Aunt Vera dismissed them. Mary led Ella to the door quickly, and only when they were both seated in the Impala did they visibly relax.

"I'm sorry if my aunt was—"

Ella waved her off. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad I could help out with you and Soda."

The younger girl's face was downcast for a moment. "You're too kind, Ella. Really." She turned to look at her, then. "I appreciate you. Thank you."

A grin. "What are friends for?"

* * *

Having dropped Mary off at the movies with Soda, Ella drove to Buck's roadhouse to meet up with her boyfriend, not enjoying the idea of being there. She found a spot in the back away from everyone else and parked, hoping to get inside inconspicuously. Really, she was glad that she'd gotten there a little early, an hour or so before things got crazy down at the bar. Friday and Saturday nights were always like that, and Ella tried to avoid going anywhere near Buck's those days. Dallas had been good about meeting up with her at different places, or if her mother was working, he would swing by and pick her up in Buck's T-Bird.

The girl maneuvered her way inside, only looking up a little to see if Dallas was seated at the bar. She was glad that he wasn't, not liking to be around drunken cowboys and hoods that dropped in looking for a place to lie low for a while. The atmosphere was always thick with smoke during the evenings and nights, and Ella always held her breath until she reached the top of the steps, exhaling slowly as she released the air in her lungs. Dallas's room was in the back, and with anxious steps, the girl walked back, tapping lightly on his door to announce herself.

Dallas opened the door, giving her one quick glance before allowing her in. The room smelled strongly of smoke, too, along with a hint of beer, and Ella's eyes immediately landed on a few empty cans that were tossed onto the desk, a slight breeze from the cracked window wafting the scent right in her direction. But this was Dallas, she thought to herself, and as she stared at his topless form seated on the bed, a cigarette hanging off his lip as he worked a thread through his jean jacket, Ella smiled just a little and closed the door behind herself as she walked inside.

"How was it?" he casually inquired. "Playing pawn."

Ella shrugged. "Fine, I guess. Mary's aunt seemed to believe us." She shook her head. "Soda wasn't lying, though. That woman is . . . strict."

The blond's eyes lifted for a second as he stared at his girlfriend leaning back on the wall, her limbs stretched out across the bed. Her skirt was riding up a little from where she'd hopped up onto the mattress, parts of it tucked beneath her knees. She looked a little worn, and Dallas was surprised to see no makeup around her eyes; she no longer looked like a damn raccoon. He turned away for a second to flick his ashes in the ashtray on the desk, before getting back to his work—work which was sewing a patch into his jacket where the fucking thing had ripped, compliments of Artemis. Thinking about his horse reminded him of earlier that morning, and as he looked at Ella, he wondered about that Dwayne guy, if a prick like that could be related to Ella. Christ almighty.

He shook his head, pulling the thread through the patch before glancing once more at Ella. Her eyes were slit, eyelashes brushing her cheeks, body slumped over just a little. He wondered if she'd fall asleep just sitting there—she'd done it two or three times before, not that he gave a shit. Truthfully, Ella did a lot, even though she worked forty hours a week. But that wasn't the point. The place she worked in was fucking hotter than hell, and she helped out a lot at home with the bills, cleaning, cooking . . . The girl practically worked herself to the bone, but Dallas had come to learn that Ella liked to keep herself busy, that way she didn't think too much. She had started relaxing a little more around him, too, but she wouldn't let him touch her like he had a few nights back. He'd quit trying so much, deciding to just . . . let her initiate things—he didn't need to get worked up to get rejected again.

He still wasn't sure what he really thought about Ella, either. Sure, she was alright, a decent girlfriend and all that, and he got on good with her, but his physical attraction toward the girl was enough to drive him wild, and he wondered a few times when Ella would really let loose and let him fuck her. He wanted to, and he knew Ella wanted to, but she was . . . Ella was Ella, and he was slowly, and very, very reluctantly, learning that.

"Did you read any more of it?"

He glanced up, following her gaze. Glaring at Ponyboy's book, which was placed on the night table beside the bed, the teen shook his head. He didn't want to talk to Ella about that shit, either, didn't want to hear that he ought to read it, and blah, blah-fucking-blah. Damn, but he just about wanted to beat the shit outta Ponyboy with the fucking thing. Johnny's face crossed his mind, and he blinked, startled by the sudden image. Stupid punk.

"Naw," he answered lethargically. "I'll get to it."

Ella licked her lips, not believing him, he knew, but at least she'd dropped the topic. She continued to watch him sew for the next several minutes, her eyes planted on the bullet wounds on his chest and torso, grimacing a little before looking away. She wondered about Dallas a lot, wondered about his past and what made him . . . him, but he was always so casual and blunt, unless he had something to brag about, which usually meant some stupid stuff he'd done, or when he got locked up . . . etc. Ella just wanted to know _him_ —she didn't think she was asking too much, but Dallas was a pretty tough and reserved guy, and while he could act decent and watch his ways with her, he could turn mean and cruel as quickly as someone snapping their fingers. She never pushed him, though, only asked certain things on different subjects, and then put them to bed.

"You know a Dwayne Mitchell?"

The question was asked so casually that Ella was startled. Her eyes broadened at the name, her chest beginning to tighten a little. She hadn't heard that name in years, not since her mother mentioned it one time when she was a little girl. Ella never inquired about Dwayne Mitchell before, for her mother would often close off and not discuss him. The only thing Ella knew was that he and her mother had some fling before marrying due to an unexpected pregnancy. After that, Dwayne had taken off, leaving no trace that he'd ever been there in the first place.

She nodded, slow like. "Why do you ask?"

The blond finished the final stitch, placing the jacket on the back of the chair, and stubbed his cancer stick out. His eyes were hard as he stared at Ella, lips pressed downward into a tight line. He almost expected her to answer yes, but some part of him—and he wasn't sure why—almost wanted her to say no. But shit, if this Dwayne Mitchell was who Dallas suspected him to be, it would be awfully funny, wouldn't it? Ella's daddy was a no good, bootleggin', son-of-a-bitch. The thought alone was comical to the blond-headed hood, and he smirked over at Ella.

"Met him today," he replied. "Wants my horse." At the girl's perplexed look, he dove into the story that took place that morning, watching Ella's face carefully. ". . . so that's that." His eyes focused on hers. "How do you know him?"

Ella was quiet for a good moment, before deciding to answer. "Dwayne Mitchell is my father." She shrugged a little, keeping her gaze straight ahead. "I've never met him, but . . . I know a little about him from my mom. She won't talk about him much, though."

"How come?"

"I don't know. It bothers her a lot." She made a face, looking a little lost, but then she asked, "What did he look like?"

Dallas snorted, wanting to say that Dwayne Mitchell looked like a prick, but didn't. "Light brown hair, pale eyes . . ." He shrugged. "Somethin' like that."

She nodded almost sadly. "Yeah, that's him. My mother has this picture of the three of us when I was first born, but she folded him out of it. I used to look at it all the time when I was younger." She was silent for another minute before shaking her head. "I'm not sure how he and my mom met, but it was only a year before I was born." A sigh. "Apparently, they dated for a few months, and then my mom wound up pregnant with me, so they were married right away. That's all there is to it."

The blond merely stared into the distance, finding the situation hysterical. Ella's old man . . . Jesus Christ. So he knocked up her mother and they had a shotgun wedding. Technically, Ella was a bastard child, so to speak, but it was covered up. So, even though her parents had split, they never divorced, and Ella carried that man's name—damn.

"But that was forever ago," she commented, breaking his thoughts. "It's over." Her arms folded over her chest. "So he's back in town, then?" Glory, but that would be fantastic news for her mother.

"Guess so," Dallas replied, moving off of the bed and making his way across the room. He stopped in front of the old, beaten up dresser, pulling the bottom drawer open and digging around for something, a grin stretching about his face as he pulled out a small baggie along with something else, and Ella raised a curious brow as she watched him do something on the dresser. But he was making his way back to the bed a minute later, a mischievous glimmer in his otherwise glacier orbs. "You ever been high?"

The girl's mouth practically spilled. "No . . ."

He was grinning as he lit up, inhaling before passing the joint to her. "Take a hit."

"No," she repeated, shaking her head. "I'm not doing that."

"Suit yourself," he responded, not once losing that smirk.

Ella felt her stomach bubbling with worry, or something else she didn't quite know how to describe, and it was all because Dallas made her feel so stupid at times. They were the same age, but Dallas felt like he was years older than her, many years, and perhaps he was, but some of the things he did made Ella question him and his choices. It's not so much that him smoking a joint bothered her, but it was the principle of things. Ella might have been a smart girl, but Dallas was old, and the hardness of his face along with the bitter look in his eyes didn't let her ever forget that. She could never change him, not that she wanted or planned to, but while he was still a kid, Dallas was set in his ways. He was independent, used to being on his own and not trusting anyone, and Ella felt like . . . almost a child next to him. She knew then that anything she had ever tried to teach him academically would never compare to the things that he knew. She would learn from him.

Without a second thought, she turned, reaching for the joint with a newfound courage, a playful look in her eyes as she crawled across the bed. But Dallas grabbed her once she was close enough, easily looping his arm around her smaller frame and pulling her practically on top of himself. She gave a small yelp, grabbing his shoulders to support her body, her leg slipping on the inside of her skirt until he grabbed her from the other side, securing the joint between his lips. His fingers dug roughly into her leg as he jerked it across his lap, making her straddle his thighs. Her own eyes were large and rounded as they stared into his own, which were slightly darker, the pupils dilated a little.

He inhaled, watching her intensely before letting the smoke flow out of his mouth in her direction. Ella was fixed in her spot, her fingers gripping Dallas's bare shoulders as he leaned forward to kiss her. Her body instantly heated up, face flushed and heart racing, her veins pumping hotly. She shook a little as his hands moved up and down her sides and back, lips pressing into the sensitive skin on her neck, a breathy and light moan spilling passed her lips before she could stop it. Dallas only took that as an invitation to continue, ignoring his earlier thoughts that she could initiate things. Fuck that.

Ella gasped as his hands reached under her skirt, the pads of his fingers moving up her legs before they enclosed around her thighs and then gripped her bottom. She made a sound like a squeak, jolting back suddenly, breathing heavy and hard. She immediately shifted off of him, glassy eyes stark wide as the room came back into focus, the taste of Dallas and pot mixed inside her mouth, her body still coming down from the high. Nobody had ever touched her like that, and while she . . . enjoyed Dallas doing so, she just wasn't ready to move any further.

"Dallas." She turned to face him, surprised to see the large grin on his face. "What?" she asked, feeling self-conscious.

"Nothin'," he answered. But the smile was ever taunting her. "Glory, but you sure turn red."

She cast her eyes away, almost feeling mortified. She always started with him teasingly, only for it to turn into a make-out session that she couldn't move forward with. Golly, she sure felt like an idiot at the best (or worst) of times.

The blond shook his head at her. "You oughtta git home, sweets." He jerked his chin toward the clock. "I gotta work soon."

She blinked once . . . twice . . .

"Yeah," she eventually replied, adjusting herself and her clothes as she stood. She had almost forgotten that Dallas worked the bar Friday nights from nine to twelve sometimes when Buck needed an extra hand. She wondered how she'd gotten so carried away, or if Dallas would have stopped her or himself if she hadn't pulled back. "I'll see you tomorrow . . . ?"

He smirked. "No promises, sweets, but since I know you're so hopeful . . ."

Ella bit her lip, unsure of how to feel. But Dallas walked her to the door, jerking her back by her arm before she stepped out, and kissed her once. She didn't expect him to press his mouth against her ear, though, the words he whispered enough to turn her redder than a ripe tomato as she made her way down the stairs and out to the car.

Oh, glory.

 _And all the roads we have to walk are winding_

 _And all the lights that lead us there are blinding_

 _There are many things that I_

 _Would like to say to you but I don't know how_

* * *

 **So, Mr. Mitchell has made an appearance. Oh boy . . .**

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! :3**


	18. And So Become Yourself

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young own "Teach Your Children."**

* * *

 _You who are on the road_

 _Must have a code that you can live by_

 _And so become yourself_

 _Because the past is just a goodbye_

 **September 20, 1966**

Frances Mitchell's face was twisted into a mixture of shock and outrage. Hearing her daughter admit that she had been dating a hoodlum was . . . was _appalling_. The first thought that had gone through the woman's mind involved questioning Ella's brains. Good Lord, with all of those decent grades she had brought home, and how well she had done for herself, Frances couldn't fathom how she could ever let Dallas Winston become a part of her life—her romantic life, no less. And they'd been seeing each other for a month? Frances just couldn't believe it. And what disturbed her more was that Ella had kept this from her, had hid her "happiness", had completely gone behind her back, too! And all because of that godawful hoodlum.

"I just don't understand what's going on in that head of yours," she vented, shaking her head. "I thought I raised you better, Ella."

Now it was Ella's turn to look taken aback, her mother's words plunging an invisible knife straight into her chest. She wasn't sure how her mother could blame herself for her choices. Ella frowned. She was eighteen years old, she was an adult, right? Of course, she understood that her mother was concerned about her, and she knew that she didn't like Dallas anymore than most of their society did, but that wasn't the point. Ella knew that Dallas wasn't . . . well, that he wasn't the best suitable choice when it came to the dating field, but she didn't care—she liked him, and that was that.

"It has nothing to do with how you raised me, Mom," she replied firmly, though her voice was low. She wished she'd never said anything at all, but since finding out that her father was back in town hassling her boyfriend for a horse that he'd won, Ella figured that the right thing to do was tell her mother that Dwayne was around. "I like him, and he likes me." She shrugged. "There's nothing more to it."

Frances made a sound like a snort. "Oh, I'm sure he likes you real well, Ella." Her back pressed into the counter as she turned away from the stove to face her only child, who was seated at the kitchen table, countenance deadpan. "You know what boys like Dallas Winston are into?" Her expression turned stern just then, the lines in her face becoming more prominent. "Don't believe for one second that that boy, that . . . _dirty hood_ wants anything more from you than sex." She shook her head, grabbing the wooden spoon before turning back to stir the oatmeal. "I just can't believe you."

Ella felt awful, Evie's words echoing back at her through her mother's mouth. It was a sick feeling that circulated throughout her body, and she couldn't help but feel sorry for herself. She knew about Dallas and his lifestyle, and she knew what she was getting into with him, but Ella wasn't one to really . . . let people get over on her—not really, at least—and she had no problem calling Dallas out on anything, or going back at him when he started with her, either. But she knew that he could snap, knew that he was as dangerous and lethal as everyone said he was, and that thought unnerved her, not that she would ever admit that to anyone.

"I'm eighteen."

Frances continued to stir the hot cereal, keeping her back to her daughter. "I know, Ella, but while you still live in my house, I make the rules." She was silent for a few seconds before continuing, sounding as bitter as she looked. "So, here's the deal." Finally she turned. "If you want to mess up your life and throw away your future on a convict like Dallas Winston, I can't, and I won't, stop you. With that said, so long as you are dating him, you are not to bring him into this house or on this property." She shook her head, hands coming up in a mock surrender, lips thinned. "I don't ever want to see him, I don't want to know a thing." Her eyes were hard. "I'll never accept this. You're making a grand mistake."

Ella hated this with every fiber of her being. She hated fighting with her mother. They always got along well, even if their relationship was estranged. But Frances had made Ella feel so guilty, so unbelievably guilty, and her words stung worse than anything anyone had ever said to her before. The bite in them was even worse, and Ella knew that her mother would never change her mind, and there would be no support or acceptance from her. She kept her face masked as she blinked her eyes free of the tears that were beginning to brim the surface, and stood up.

"Well," she retorted, grabbing her bag and keys, "I won't make the same mistakes as you. And by the way, your first one is back in town."

Before she could make it out of the kitchen, Frances had grabbed her by the arm, jerking her around quickly and slapping her in the face, her knuckles cracking against her right cheek. Ella stood with blatant shock etched about her entire face, eyes broad with fear. Her mother had only ever raised a hand to her a few times in her life, but that was mostly when she was younger and got out of line. The fact that she'd slapped her now was literally . . . a slap in the mouth.

"I certainly didn't teach you that behavior," she fired back, disappointment seeping through her words and reflected in her blue orbs. "And what mistake are you talking about?"

Ella turned away, ignoring the stinging sensation against her skin. "Dwayne Mitchell," she answered icily. "My father. He's back in town."

"Who told you that?"

The girl's nose wrinkled as she debated on telling her mother. "Nobody important," she decided to say, not wanting to mention Dallas again. "But he's hassling somebody I know for a horse they won in the rodeo a month ago, saying that she belongs to him and he wants her back."

Frances sighed. "I haven't seen your father since he left." Her voice grew firm, then. "I'm sorry about this person he's hassling, but don't make it a point to go and see him, Ella. He's not worth it."

"I didn't have plans to," she replied, shoulders slumping. "But why won't you ever tell me anything about him?"

There was a beat of silence that filled the room, and Ella wondered if her mother would ever answer her question. It wasn't so much that she wanted to know a lot about the man that had walked out on them when she was a mere infant, but she wanted to know _why_ he did, and why her mother could never speak about him without clamming up and turning stony. Of course, Ella understood her hatred, but then she wondered if it was hatred at all, or something else.

"Because," her mother finally said, her voice growing softer with each word. "I don't want you to make the same mistakes that I did, Ella."

Ella's chest tightened at the response, and she turned on her heel, heading out the door and into the rain, forgetting all about breakfast entirely.

* * *

Dallas, plainly put, wasn't having a good day. He'd worked that morning out in the cool wetness, his bones stiff and tense, and then Buck had taken the T-Bird, leaving him to finish cleaning up the horse shit by himself, and then he had to walk back to the roadhouse to gather up his belongings to take to the Curtis house so he could wash his laundry. By the time he'd gotten there, though, the clothes he was wearing clung to his body, his usual messy hair flat on his head and drenched.

He shook himself a little, tiny droplets flicking off his clothes and out of his hair, and stepped inside, not surprised to see Darry already headed in his direction—he couldn't do any roofing in the rain. Hell, but it was storming out there.

"Dally?" Darry said, watching the teen shuffle himself inside and dropping his wet duffel bag. "What in the almighty universe are you doin'?"

"What's it look like?" came the frustrated response. "Fuckin' Buck left me at the stables with no way of getting anywhere other than walkin'." He shook his head, peeling his jacket off. "I needed to do some laundry, figured I'd swing by and do it here, but—"

Darry reached for his bag, cutting him off. "That's fine. Why don't you take a shower and get warmed up. If you need some clothes, there's a pair of jeans ironed in my closet. I think Soda's got a shirt in there, too." He nodded toward the blond's soaked attire. "You want them washed, or you want to put them on the drying rack and slip'em back on when they're dried and ironed?"

The hood shrugged, glancing once at the older boy with a cool expression. Hell, he remembered when Darry didn't so much as give a shit about clean laundry, or ironing, or . . . any of that domesticated shit that Mrs. Curtis always took care of. He'd always admired the woman, though—she was a hard worker, always made sure everything was taken care of, and she always took care of her kids. And Darry was turning out to be just like her, even more than Soda. Then again, Soda had the more laid back and goofy disposition of their father. Looking at the oldest Curtis brother just then, Dally could see that he was worn, and the expression in his eyes reminded him of Ella—almost.

"Don't worry about washin' them," he answered. "I'll put them back on after they're dry."

Darry cocked an eyebrow. "You sure, Dal?"

A shrug.

The twenty-one year old merely sighed, carrying the small duffel into the laundry room. Dallas had disappeared around the corner of the hallway, and after a minute, Darry heard the shower turn on. He wondered about Dallas sometimes, remembering how his mother was able to get through to him when nobody else could. He never understood what it was that she saw in the towheaded delinquent, but for some reason, she liked him real well, and the two had formed some kind of mutual understanding, one that Darry would never understand. But he honored his mother's wishes to make sure that everyone was always taken care of, so with that, he got to work on washing the laundry.

After a second or two, the bathroom door opened and Dally's voice rang out. "Hey, Superman. Head's up!" And his balled up laundry landed just outside the kitchen entrance, the bathroom door closing once again.

Darry shook his head, reaching down and picking the clothes up, his nose wrinkling at the smell of livestock and . . . shit. Hell, no wonder Dally wasn't in a good mood that morning. Not only did he have to walk several miles in the rain carrying his dirty laundry, but he smelled like a goddamn pigpen—but that's what ya got with mucking horse shit and cleaning stalls in nasty weather. Glory. Yeah, they needed to be washed, probably sanitized, too.

He divided all of the laundry up, lights and colors, deciding that he would do some white bleaching that upcoming Sunday. Glancing at Soda's stained up socks, he figured that was a good idea. Hell, even his work tees needed a good bleachin', for it had been a while since he'd gotten around to that particular chore. Usually, he just stuck to the basics—washing, hanging, ironing, folding. He thought about Ella Mitchell, wondering how in the world she worked in a laundromat all day. Well, it was better than working on roofs, or in the warehouse, he thought, shaking his head. But damn, he didn't really enjoy doing the laundry, but there was no way on God's green earth that he was leaving that job to Ponyboy, no thank you. He didn't exactly trust Soda with an iron, either, so he'd taken the chore of laundry as his own, only appreciating when it was washed and folded by his brothers before he got home from work.

A few minutes later, Dallas emerged into the living room looking a lot better than he had when he first stepped into the house. Darry eyeballed his own jeans which hung a little loosely on the smaller framed teen, Soda's shirt more fitting. He offered the blond some coffee, as well as leftover breakfast, which he hadn't gotten around to cleaning up yet. Well, at least the food was still warm—somewhat. But there were pancakes and a few strips of bacon left, so if Dallas was hungry, which Darry figured he was, there was something to eat.

As expected, the hood strolled back out a moment later, a plate in one hand, a mug in the other, and sat down on the couch that Steve had occupied the night before. He ate quietly, shuffling the food in his mouth, and Darry wondered when the last time Dallas had a home cooked meal was. But he wasn't going to ask, deciding he'd rather not put his buddy in a worse mood than he was before.

"So, how're things goin'?" he asked, leaning back in his father's recliner. It had been a while since he and Dally had a good talk. It was funny, considering that they'd done that a few times in the past, but since the incident last September, the two of them had hardly spoken to one another. Darry remembered back when his parents had died . . . he'd been trying to keep everyone together, trying to be the cement, and trying to do the right thing . . . and Dallas had dropped in one night, sat down with him on the steps out back, and the two of them had a few beers while Darry laid a load on him. Yeah, that had been something. But things were different now—much different. "You read Ponyboy's book yet?"

Dallas's eyes snapped open, and he shot Darry a look. "You, too?"

"What do you mean?"

A sigh, and he pushed his plate away, a vexed expression veiling his face. "Ever since Pony gave me his book to read, everyone's been askin' me about it." His mouth twitched. "I've been reading little bits at a time. I'll get around to finishing it when I got time."

Darry nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I hear you." Leaning back, he placed his hands on either side of the armchair, stretching his legs out a little. "Ponyboy's just been anxious." His eyes met Dallas's. "But he has until December . . . the thirtieth, I think, to get back to Mr. Franklin, his publisher." When the teen didn't respond, Darry approached a different topic. "So how are you and Ella?"

At the mention of his girlfriend's name, Dallas's face twisted. He hadn't exactly seen a whole lot of her in the past few days, and he had a feeling the little broad was avoiding him. Oh, he had a pretty good feeling as to why she was, but he knew that she knew she couldn't avoid him forever. Ella was as stubborn as a goddamn mule sometimes, but so was he, and if she wanted to play this fucking game with him . . . well, fine and dandy. She just better be willing to lose, he thought with a smirk. No, Ella wasn't going anywhere because she liked him too much, and they both knew it. Speaking of "Her fucking Highness", she'd been getting on his damn nerves, too—even though he hadn't seen her all that much. She had been quite the hit of his thoughts as of late, and he was growing irritated with her. Hell, but a few days back when she'd let him . . . _fuck_.

Darry clearing his throat snapped him back into reality, and he shrugged apathetically. "Good."

"She's a nice girl."

The side of his mouth curved upward. "Yeah."

He'd gotten the underlying message in Darry's words, though. Yeah, Ella was a nice girl, but nobody trusts you with her and would rather she didn't date you. Dally wondered how many people knew that Ella had indirectly pursued him first, not that she was ever brave enough to make a move—no, he had done that, but still . . . she had liked him for quite a long time, wanted to be with him, not the other way around. All he had done was fulfill her little fantasy, and now he just considered on how far he could get with her. Hell, maybe he liked her a little—after all, she was entertaining, and she was different, a lot different than any of the other broads he'd been around the block with.

 _Nice girl_ about summed her up.

* * *

"Mitchell . . . Ella . . . L. What's the L stand for?"

Ella sighed, rolling her eyes. "Louise, Two-Bit."

The red-haired boy's eyes lit up. "Louise Two-Bit, huh? Well, ain't that somethin'?" He chuckled, the sound wholehearted and full. "Ella Lou! Ella-Lou-Who." And then he was cackling loudly, shaking his head at his own joke.

"Okay, okay," she said, and grabbed her license out of his hand, tucking it safely back inside her wallet again. Why Two-Bit had to touch everything in sight was a mystery to her, but she didn't really mind his company so much. Besides, it was Ponyboy who had asked her the day before to pick him up that particular afternoon after school let out, since it would be storming and all. What she didn't expect was for Two-Bit to become a surprise hitchhiker as well. "So, what happened to your car?"

"Brakes went," he answered, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Too bad, I guess. Steve just took a look at my car, too. Said he'd come back and do some work on her this weekend, but the brakes decided to go first." He shook his head. "Hell, you shoulda seen Bee's face when we rounded the corner leavin' the drive-in the other night. Almost gave her a heart attack."

Ella grimaced. Oh, yeah, she could just picture Bridget's face alright. She probably squealed, covered her face, and then yelled at Two-Bit after calming down a little. But even though the situation had been a dangerous one, Ella couldn't help but smile. Two-Bit and Bridget were something else, and she thought that they were a good couple—good for each other, too. She wondered what Bridget's father thought of her dating a guy like Two-Bit. Did he think like her own mother with her and Dally? Or was he more lenient with his daughter's choices. Ella certainly wouldn't ask, but her dispute with her mother earlier that morning still made her feel awfully lousy. She hadn't meant to come off so rotten, but she was upset, and angry, and— Oh, blast it, she thought miserably.

". . . but that's that. Anywho," Two-Bit's voice carried on, "I see Ponyboy."

Ella's eyes lifted, landing on the fifteen year old as he approached the car. She smiled at him before he climbed into the back seat behind Two-Bit, a tired look on his face. Hell, if there was anyone who could understand her other than Bridget, or even Soda, it was Ponyboy. It wasn't that he was in a similar predicament as them or anything, but he had a deep way of thinking and comprehending things that most people didn't. Ella admired him for that, trusted his judgment and advice—even more than Evie's at times, not that she would ever say that to anyone.

"Hey, kid," Two-Bit greeted first. "What's got you lookin' so glum?"

Through the rear-view mirror, Ella saw him shrug. "Nothing. Just tired, I guess."

"Ain't you been sleepin'?"

Another shrug. "Remember those nightmares I use to get after . . ." He left the question hanging, and Ella's brows furrowed a little as Two-Bit simply nodded in affirmation. "I had one the other night, and I haven't been able to sleep right since."

Two-Bit's expression turned serious, all signs of the wisecracking persona absent. "Have you told your brothers, kid?"

"No, not yet," came the dull answer. "I was hoping they would go away on their own, but . . . I don't know. I didn't want to bug them, especially Darry."

And then Ella remembered from Ponyboy's book how he mentioned that he got nightmares after the death of his parents. Glory, she thought, a terrible feeling creeping up her spine, she felt awful for her friend, and just seeing his downcast face was gut-wrenching.

"I'm sure you wouldn't be bugging them, Ponyboy," she said earnestly. "You should talk to both of them about it."

The younger teen gave a slow nod, a yawn escaping his mouth. "Yeah. Maybe I will." He made a face, then. "It ain't nothing serious, though."

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow, glancing once at Ella, who pursed her lips. Neither of them said anything, but the silent words were plenty enough—they were both concerned for their friend, and Ella figured that Two-Bit's worry most likely out-weighed her own. He'd witnessed Ponyboy experiencing one of those horrific nightmares before, the ones she'd only read about. The message in Two-Bit's eyes was clear enough, though. He would drop a message on the down-low to Darry or Soda, have them keep an eye on Ponyboy.

And with that, it began to downpour, the rain like a flood moving down the windshield of the Impala, the sky nearly black as a boom of thunder echoed in the distance.

* * *

Mary ran her silky sheets through her fingers while staring out her bedroom window at the falling rain, the fat droplets rolling down the glass and leaving behind endless trails. Her thoughts had been about Soda all day, and her heart sank as she considered their relationship. She felt so silly having to hide the man she loved and wanted to be with from everyone. Mary was sure she was in love, and she wanted to express her love for Soda in so many ways, wanted to talk about him and how she felt, but there wasn't anyone around who would listen to her. The woman who had raised her—her aunt—wouldn't hear of it, didn't want to think that her niece, her prim and proper niece, would stoop so low as to not have a real and decent gentleman by her side. But Mary . . . she wanted nobody but Soda by her side, and she felt heartbroken that she couldn't really have him, their relationship nothing more than a concealed love hidden in the shadows. And Mary yearned for more.

Aunt Vera would never allow it, though. She was set in her ways, ways that were archaic and dumb, ways that Mary herself would never come to understand no matter how many times Aunt Vera told her that she would some day. The thing was that times were changing, and Mary—now that she was older and more sophisticated—was beginning to realize that her aunt was stuck in a time that no longer existed to their youth, did not fit into society. Oh, but why did things have to be so difficult? Why couldn't she just live the life she wanted, without dispute?

A light tap on the door pulled the girl out of her thoughts, and her eyes drifted toward the wooden interior, lips pressed into a straight line. She stood up, smoothing her lavish nightgown down in order to look presentable, pulling the front of her robe over her chest. Aunt Vera never did well with any form of indecency, and Mary was not permitted to expose any part of herself that was considered—in Aunt Vera's eyes—unorthodox.

"Come in," she called out.

The knob turned, the door opening in one fluid motion, and there stood Aunt Vera herself. Her own dark robe hung loosely around her slender frame, hair combed back into a braid, a stern expression on her lips. Mary had always thought her aunt was an attractive woman, but her eyes were frightening, and they always had been. They were dark pools of strictness, an oasis filled to the brim with the respect that she so demanded, and Mary stood nearly five inches shorter, neither as authoritative, or as imposing.

Aunt Vera stared down at her for a second or two before her eyes flickered about the room. "I'll make this brief," she said, and then turned out her palm, fingers folding back slowly. Her skin looked rather delicate, but Mary knew that the woman's hands were anything but. "I found this in the library earlier this morning while you were having breakfast." Her eyes were sharp. "I'd like to know where you received it."

Mary's own eyes broadened at the thin bracelet that Soda had gotten for her just the other day. She was sure she had placed it inside of her jewelry box, so how had it ended up in the library? She had no recollection of being there since last Thursday, but then again, Mary had read nearly every book her aunt's library had to offer . . . But the question still remained, and Mary couldn't think of an answer, either for herself or for her aunt.

"I—"

"Did that boy give this to you?" Aunt Vera asked, sounding aggravated.

Mary nodded, eyes on the floor. "He did, but it was . . . a few months ago."

There was a moment of silence before the woman responded, but when she did, Mary felt like she might be sick, for Aunt Vera's words haunted her mind for the rest of the night. If only she wasn't sixteen! If only she was eighteen already, but she wasn't, and there was nothing that she could do, no place that she could run to.

"Well, I'll assume that, since you've not seen one another, this . . . _toy_ is no longer important to you. Of course, I'm sure it wasn't very costly, considering his means." Her chin raised as Mary's eyes met hers, the teen shrinking back. Her hand once again clasped around the bracelet, hiding it from her niece's sight. "But that is not the reason I wanted to speak with you. This Sunday, we will be attending a Cotillion Ball, and you, Mary, will be presented as one of the stepping out debutantes." A small smile graced her lips. "I've purchased a gown for you, which will be delivered by Mrs. Perry early Sunday morning. I expect that you will be . . . most grateful for this opportunity."

Mary nodded, keeping quiet because she knew better than to speak against her aunt regarding any of her decisions, and it was clear that she had made up her mind for Sunday's ball.

"May I have the bracelet, Aunt Vera?" she asked, a meek sound in her voice.

Aunt Vera's face twisted. "I don't feel that it would be appropriate to keep a trinket from another man, Mary. That is . . . considerably unorthodox for a young woman who is a bachelorette." She shook her head. "No, you may not have it, but understand . . . it's for the best."

"You don't like So— Patrick at all."

It was a direct statement, and Mary couldn't contain the tears that were welling up in her eyes. Oh, how she longed for her aunt's approval, for her to just tell her that she was good enough, that she was proud of her. But Aunt Vera never offered her anything like that—only what she thought was a structured and stable household.

Aunt Vera's voice was measured, her eyes firm. "That boy is not suitable for a girl like you, Mary, and the sooner you are able to understand that, the sooner you will realize that you are better off without him, or anyone of that particular class." She raised her chin as she turned to leave. "Goodnight, Mary."

The door closed with a soft _click_ , and Mary was left to wonder why her aunt was so cruel. She had asked herself before whether or not she honestly believed that the woman loved her. Surely she did—she had taken her in, after all. But did that really mean anything? Mary didn't know, and she wasn't sure that she really wanted to, either.

 _Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry_

 _So just look at them and sigh_

 _And know they love you_

* * *

 **A tremendous _thank you_ for all of the positive feedback! It's sincerely appreciated. :3**


	19. More Alone

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Lorde owns "Ribs."**

 **(AndThatWasEnough owns Bridget Stevens.)**

* * *

 _This dream isn't feeling sweet_

 _We're reeling through the midnight streets_

 _And I've never felt more alone_

 _It feels so scary, getting old_

 **September 24, 1966**

"Here," Ella said, handing Bridget a napkin. A sigh escaped her mouth as she leaned back against her bed, her legs stretched out in front of herself. Evie was spread out sideways on the mattress, a fashion magazine held over her face as her bare feet rested against the side wall, and Bridget was sitting on the floor, her side propped up against one of Ella's spare pillows as she picked at a blueberry muffin. "I just don't know what I should do yet. I mean, I want to go, but—"

"She's sad because she'll be missing her white-haired devil too much," Evie quipped, flipping a page. "I get it an' all, but you gotta do what's best for you, Ella. Not Dallas."

Ella's lips pressed together. Okay, so maybe she _was_ a little upset about leaving Dallas behind while she went to college, but that wasn't all of it—well, it was a lot of it, but still. She just wasn't sure what she really wanted to do with herself. She had never been out of Tulsa in all her eighteen (almost nineteen) years of life, and while she had the itch to go and live her life, she felt herself refraining. She knew, like Evie said, that it was her own choice that mattered—hers alone and nobody else—so why did she have to constantly second guess herself? Perhaps she didn't trust her own judgment, which is precisely why she had asked Evie and Bridget to hangout that Saturday. Her eyes shifted toward the clock on her night table—it was only eleven o'clock, which meant another eight hours until the rodeo that night.

She blinked. "I won't miss him all _that_ much, but really, I'm just unsure of myself."

Bridget looked thoughtful. "Maybe you need another year before you go." Her head turned to the side so she could get a better look at her friend. "I'm thinking about Juilliard."

Now Evie looked suddenly interested, and Ella couldn't blame her. Silently, though, she wished that Cathy was there with the three of them to get in on the dirt, but she had returned to Graves. Ella briefly wondered if the girl missed them as much as they missed her, but what could they do? Of course, Ella had spoken to her a few times on the telephone, but never for too long. She knew that Evie had spoken to her as well, though she wasn't sure about Bridget. That was okay, though, for the four of them knew that even if they didn't speak to one another for months, they would always pick up right where they left off, like no time had past whatsoever.

"Thinkin' of becoming an actress, Stevens?" Evie asked, a smirk on her lips.

Bridget shrugged. "Well, I am in drama club, and Mrs. White might have said that I have a lot of talent. She gave me a solo in choir, too." Her cheeks were tinting as she continued on. "I really like it . . . performing, I mean."

"Bridget, that's great," Ella gushed, tossing her acceptance letter from Berkeley onto her bed table.

"And to think it ain't even October yet," Evie added, flipping onto her stomach, hair spilling around her head like a halo. "Hell, we're only one month into the school year." She cocked an eyebrow. "Alright, Stevens, fess up. What ain't you tellin' us?"

The black-haired girl looked shocked for a second, before seeing the teasing look in Evie's brown orbs. Ella was smiling on the floor to her right, and Bridget—though she felt slightly overwhelmed—was also grinning. She'd never spoken to anyone about her future dreams before, never considered doing so until Ella had told her and Evie about attending Berkeley College for the Spring semester in January, which she thought was great. Ella seemed so . . . miserable, though, and Bridget wasn't quite sure how to console her.

"Nothing," she answered quietly. "You know, I miss New York a lot." A shrug. "I think of it as home, well, it _is_ my home, and whenever I think of myself down the road, I imagine myself there—and Juilliard has always been a . . . considerable option for me."

Evie glanced in her direction. "You never told us you were into acting."

"I didn't think to," the girl admitted. "Nobody ever asked."

Ella understood that. She never bothered sharing anything about herself, never thought about doing so until recently. She had always been rather reserved, and truthfully, she liked being that way. Heck, not even her own mother knew about Berkeley—only Ponyboy, and she was sure he wouldn't go blabbing her secrets to anyone, same as she kept his. But Bridget reflected the same yearning she felt, the want for someone to listen. Ella considered her other friends for a moment. Cathy came from a large family, and she doubted the poor girl had any sort of privacy, and Angela . . . she was an open book, unless she was up to something devious. Mary was a different story, completely unlike the rest of them. Her aunt had her future planned out and readied, and Ella wondered if the younger girl had any input at all.

There was a silence that engulfed the three girls for a moment, before Evie spoke up. "I don't even know what I'm gonna do when I graduate next year. I want to follow in my mother's footsteps and take over her salon, start my own business from her foundation." She bit her lip. "That's what I've always wanted, and well . . . I don't really see myself leavin' town, so to speak. And Steve don't wanna go no place, either, so . . ."

"You think you'll marry Steve?" Bridget asked, sounding a little excited.

Evie rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Think? Hell, Stevens, I _know_ I will." She shook head her with a smile gracing her lips. "That boy is stuck with me whether he likes it or not." And then she laughed, Ella and Bridget following suit. "What about you, El?" she teased. "Would you ever call yourself Mrs. Winston?"

The brown-haired girl's face instantly turned stony as she thought about her boyfriend. She had barely seen him, but she would that night, since it was his final performance in the rodeo. She had been avoiding him ever since she . . . let him touch her so intimately. It hadn't bothered her that one night when he'd pulled the upper half of her nightgown down, exposing her chest entirely. She had even let him touch her, even if only for a second or two. The action itself had scared her enough to jolt her out of her Euphoric state of mind, and ever since then, she had been careful about going too far with him.

But then the night in his room at Buck's occurred, and while it wasn't as drastic as her chest being exposed to him, there was still something more . . . erotic and nerve-wracking about it. Perhaps it was the way he had kissed her, or touched her, or . . . _looked_ at her. Ella wasn't sure why Dallas staring at her with pure, undeniable lust in his eyes scared her stiff, but it had . . . and she'd been afraid to really face him ever since. She sounded so stupid, she thought, and then wondered why everything was such an issue for her. Oh, but she wasn't going to allow herself to feel sorry for something so ridiculous. In her heart, she wanted to be with Dally intimately, wanted him to be her first, but the idea was so . . . overwhelming, and every time Ella considered it, she clammed up all over again.

"Earth to Ella!" Evie's loud voice called, and the older girl jumped, clearly startled.

A flush coated her cheeks. "Sorry, I was . . . thinking."

"About Dallas?" Bridget asked, and then snickered at her friend. Truthfully, Bridget wasn't exactly on board with Ella and Dallas being a couple, for she didn't really like the notorious hoodlum. Ella was a good girl, a good person, and Dallas Winston was the exact opposite of her. But opposites attract, she figured, but she hoped for Ella's sake that she was happy. "Mrs. Winston," she tested, and then laughed lightly, lips turning in. "Ella Winston."

And then Evie had to join in. "Ella Louise Winston." A laugh. "Bridget Mathews."

Bridget shot her a look. "Evelyn Randle!"

The trio continued to laugh, poking jokes at one another, and for the first time, Ella felt herself starting to relax. Their was a heavy weight still holding her shoulders down, and when a forlorn expression took over her previous grinning face, Bridget's brows furrowed together, offering a silent look at the brown-haired girl beside her. But Ella only smiled, deciding not to ruin their afternoon with the story about her father being back in town, or how nervous she was about it. No. She couldn't do that. And at the same time Ella felt surrounded by friends and laughter, she'd never felt more alone.

* * *

"So, Ella's old man is a con." Tim shook his head, tilting it back as he took a swig of his beer, a stoic look plastering his countenance. "How 'bout that?"

Dallas nodded a little, teeth pressing together as he considered Ella. He hadn't seen her still, not really, and if he was annoyed before, he was pissed now. Every time he went to her job, she was _apparently_ doing work in the back, and when he'd threatened to stay there and wait for her ass, her manager—dark and piercing eyes, real bitchy lookin' woman named Ginger, according to her clip—told him that she'd call the cops on him, he decided to say fuck it and leave. Then he decided that he'd go to her house and wait for her there, only to be confronted by her mother, who clearly didn't fucking like him. Not only that, but she'd told him to get off of her property before she had the goddamn cops arrest him. The blond wasn't exactly having a good week, and being threatened by two people who were only a fucking degree between himself and Ella hacked him off more than anything, and he was mighty fed up with her and her bullshit.

Hell, all this just to get a little pussy wasn't worth it.

Well, that's what he told himself, but he knew he wasn't sticking with Ella all because he wanted to get into her pants—she had become . . . well, he wasn't so sure that he classified— Alright, fuck it. Ella was a friend, one who he was in a relationship with, sure, but she was really just— He shook his head, mouth folding in and lips pressing together between his top and bottom teeth. She would be at the rodeo that night, he knew, because she had said a few days back that she would be there come hell or high water—she didn't want to miss his final performance with Artemis.

He was gonna win big that night. For Johnny. Dallas knew what fucking day it was, and the thought had been egging him on all morning. One year ago had been the fire up on Jay Mountain, and the next day would mark the one year anniversary of the death of Johnny Cade. It should have been him next, only it hadn't been, and the bitter agony of the truth had haunted him for the past twelve months. Glory, but any time he even so much as thought about Johnny—the damn punk—he grew bitter. It was as if the little shit was terrorizing him from beyond the grave. Yeah, right, he thought contemptuously, because little Johnny Cade, the pet of the gang, was suddenly vicious enough to torment a person, no less, his hero.

Tim's voice pulled him back to reality. "So, you think this prick is gonna show up tonight? You know, hassle you for that horse?"

Now that would be something, Dallas thought with a smirk, but instead shrugged. "Dunno. I'm lookin' forward to it if he does."

"What about your girl?"

The blond turned to face the older hood. "What about her?"

Lighting up a cigarette, Tim shrugged. "Well, that is her daddy an' all, ain't it? Don't you think the little broad is gonna be interested in him?" He shook his head. "You really wanna settle a score with him with her there?" The side of his lips twitched, a clear sign that he found the entire predicament to be amusing. "I'd love to see that play out."

Dallas snorted. "'Course you would, asshole." A scowl crossed his lips, then. "Ella don't know nothin' about her old man. She was surprised that he was even sticking his nose around this town again. I don't think she actually knows the _first_ thing about him, and it ain't like the old lady feeds her any kinda information." He made a face. "That broad ain't been nothin' but sheltered her whole life. She's a real fuckin' recluse."

At that, Tim chuckled. "So much of one that you're dating her ass. Hell, she's gotta be somethin' if yer keepin' her around this long." There was a glint of sarcasm in his voice that hadn't gone unnoticed by the younger teen. "She must play the skin flute real well, huh?"

"Fuck you, Shepard," came the hard response. "You ain't never gonna find out, so keep your fuckin' trap shut, savvy?"

Tim whistled low and long. "Jesus Christ, has she even put out for you? What's it been, a month? No wonder you're so damn cranky." A smirk. "Your hand must be gettin' awfully tired."

The blond scoffed. "Not enough to knock you the fuck out if you don't quit while you're ahead." He shook his head, though, mentally cursing the oldest Shepard sibling with everything under the sun, the fuck. "Leave the broad out of it."

"Yeah, yeah," Tim responded, already bored with the conversation. He popped another beer open and leaned back into the couch, securing his cancer stick between his index and middle finger. "Well, as far as Dwayne Mitchell goes, I'll see what I can do. Don't be too surprised if he comes lookin' for ya tonight afterward, though."

Dallas shrugged, an eager look in his orbs. "Yeah. Just find out what you can." He licked his lips. "I got other shit to take care of in the meantime."

For a moment, the eighteen year old wondered what Ella would think if she met her old man. Would she be surprised? Startled? Excited? Knowing her, though, Dallas figured that Ella would be more or less concerned, because she fucking worried over every little thing that was irrelevant or plain stupid, but either way, he really wasn't itching for her to meet Dwayne, even if he was her father. There was something that just didn't feel right about it, and Dallas had a feeling that Ella would be both terribly shocked and genuinely heartbroken to learn that Dwayne Mitchell was more than just a bootlegger.

He hadn't been able to get anything out of Buck, as the older cowboy had never seen Dwayne Mitchell, or Cody whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was around before. So Dallas had hired Tim for the job, to scope the man out, see what he could find out and tell him. Even though Dwayne hadn't come around for Artemis since that first time, Dally had a feeling his business was far from done.

* * *

As expected, Mary was waiting for Soda when he stepped outside for his break that afternoon. A smile immediately formed across his face at the sight of her, and he moved forward to pull her in for a quick hug and a light peck on the lips. However, he felt her hesitate ever so little, and worry grew in his brown orbs as he pulled back to study her face. It was then that he realized how nervous and upset she looked, and his gut suddenly twisted as he feared the worst—the worst meaning that her aunt had discovered what they'd been up to, or something akin to that.

"What's wrong, darlin'?" he asked, combing his fingers through her dark locks. "Mary . . ."

Her hands curled around his flannel sleeves, her eyes raising to meet his own. "You're going to hate me, Soda, but there is nothing that I can do to stop it." She shook her head, taking a step back, though her hands remained secured around his shirt. "Aunt Vera . . . she's, she's—"

"Hey now," he said, trying to soothe her. "Why don't we sit down, huh?" He used his other arm to wrap around her small frame, his fingers softly kneading her shoulder. Leading her over to the table under the overhang, the golden-haired teen sat down beside his girlfriend, never once moving his arm. He waited for her to calm down, before he spoke again more gently. "What's your aunt doin'?"

Mary bit her lip. "She signed me up for this . . . ridiculous cotillion ball where I'll be one of the . . . available debutantes." Her hand suddenly squeezed his. "Oh, Soda, I wanted to tell you sooner, but I couldn't. There was no way that I could speak to you privately, and Aunt Vera . . . she watches me more closely now . . . ever since she found the bracelet you got for me. She wouldn't let me have it back, either. She said it wasn't proper." And then her face was pressed against his chest, body wracking a little as she silently sobbed. "I hate this, Soda. I hate this so much."

But Soda didn't know what to do, not this time. He didn't want to picture Mary— _his_ Mary—being the subject of prying eyes belonging to various suitors looking to claim what was his as their own. Glory, the thought alone was . . . infuriating. Furthermore, he didn't want Mary to have to go through with it, but realistically, there was nothing that either of them could do. Mary was only sixteen, and he was turning eighteen. Until she was a legal adult herself, Mary was in the custody of her aunt, the woman who was trying to control (and ruin) her future. Soda hated it all as much as Mary did, and what made it worse was that there was nothing he could do for them. If he even so much as tried, Mary's aunt would have him arrested, and that was the last thing he needed. He wouldn't put Mary through that, either—he couldn't.

He gently rubbed her back. "We'll figure something out, darlin'. We will. I promise we will."

But Mary lifted her head, a beyond sadness lurking in the depth of her eyes. "We can't, Soda." Tears dripped down her face, mouth quivering. "There is nothing we can do, and we both know it. I mean, Aunt Vera will never see reason, and I can't force her to—"

"She can't force you, either!" Soda suddenly bit out, standing up quickly and rubbing his hands over his face. He exhaled hardly, turning back to his girlfriend, who was now standing as well. "You can't let her control you, Mary! You can't." His hands enclosed around her forearms then, a desperate expression veiling his features. "You gotta tell her that—"

Mary was shaking her head. "I can't, Soda. I'm sorry." A sniffle. "I can't keep hurting you like this, and if I— I feel as if I'm betraying you." And then her gaze met his. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he repeated, and then his eyes broadened as he realized what was happening. "No, Mary." He shook his head, disbelief becoming ever so present in his voice. "Please don't do this . . ."

She couldn't, he thought, could she? First Sandy, now her. No, no, no. He didn't want to lose Mary, too, for she was the only thing in his life that made everything okay, that made him want to keep going and smile all happy-go-lucky. And for the first time in a year, Soda felt his heart being torn in half, a deep void widening where it had been previously patched. He loved this girl. He loved Mary. He didn't want to let her go. Good Lord. Why was this happening to him? To _them?_

Mary was crying, her arms folded around her middle. "Please, Soda . . . forgive me."

And then she took off, leaving Soda standing there with a blank stare. He didn't want to give up on her, though, didn't want to leave her behind. No, he wouldn't, because he _loved_ her, and he didn't care what the hell he had to do, but he knew that she loved him as much as he loved her, and he would be damned if her aunt sabotaged them. He knew that he had to think of something, but what?

* * *

Dallas scouted the area for Dwayne Mitchell later that night. He had a feeling the man was gonna show up at the rodeo looking for Artemis, but he hadn't seen him yet. The place was packed, too, and while he scoped his surroundings, he also wondered where in the fuck Ella was. Fucking broad. He hadn't seen her yet, and he was up for racing in a half hour. Grounding his teeth, he gave Artemis a pat, before running the brush once more over her. She made a sound like a grunt, moving her head forward and back while trying to sniff his pockets for any treats.

"Quit it, would ya?" he said, moving to her other side. "You ain't gettin' nothin' from me unless you keep still." Again, she grunted, side-stepping him. "For Pete's sake!"

"Having fun?"

Dallas moved around Artemis, eyeing Ella coolly. "Where the hell have you been?"

She shrugged. "Busy."

He snorted. "Busy, my ass." His mouth twitched as he looked her over. "What? You ain't got time now to see me or somethin'?" He shook his head, going back to brushing his horse. "Your old lady don't like me much, huh? And neither does that manager of yours."

Ella looked at the ground. Dallas had a reason to be angry with her, and she understood that fully. She had been the one avoiding him, and she didn't have the courage to tell him why. Just admitting that to herself in her head made her feel silly—pathetic at best—but that was the truth. Seeing Dallas then made her feel even worse, but every time he'd come around the laundromat, she hid in the back and told her co-worker Shannon that she didn't want to see anyone. When Ginger got word that Ella's boyfriend was loitering around outside, she had threatened to call the cops on him, and Ella had been shocked to learn that. Of course, Ginger hadn't let her go without a warning, either, telling her that if Dallas Winston was caught again, she would be fired immediately.

"I'm sorry," she replied dully, looking up only a little. "It's not that I don't have time for you, but—"

"But what?" he barked, tossing the brush back into the bin. "It ain't no secret you've been avoiding me, sweets. Either fess up, or take a damn hike. I ain't got time for bullshit." He didn't so much as spare her a glance as he got to work saddling up Artemis and checking his gear.

Ella moved forward, her heart beating hardly against her rib cage; she was nervous. "Remember that night I visited you at Buck's?" When he didn't acknowledge her, she continued anyway. "After what happened . . . I was—" She bit her lip, turning away and mentally calling herself a coward. "I was too scared to see you again." And then the words were spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I know, I should've said something, and you're right, I was avoiding you because of it. But I just couldn't bring myself—" Pause. "I'm sorry."

Adjusting his boot, Dallas glanced over at her through wisps of blond hair that fell in front of his eyes, his lips thinned. Ella was so fucking red she looked like a ripe tomato, and he couldn't help but smirk at it—Jesus Christ, but she was so . . . _virginal_ , and to him, a goddamn riot. So that was her excuse? She couldn't confront him because she was "scared" to see him after he'd felt her up hot and heavy? Well, good fucking Lord. Recalling Shepard's words from earlier that afternoon, he decided that he would have to get Ella in the sack sooner than later—show her how great it was. Hell, getting boozed up and sexed up were things he took pleasure in, and he figured that he ought to show Ella the ropes, too. He'd wanted to fuck her ever since he'd kissed her that one night on her porch, ever since he realized that he was attracted to her when he'd snuck into her bedroom for the first time . . .

"Dallas," a voice rang out, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Let's go. Race is gon' start in fifteen."

He looked up as Buck appeared next to Ella, giving her a once over. "I'll be out in a few," he replied, nodding to Buck. His attention turned back to his girlfriend, who was still standing there awkwardly, an embarrassed expression toning her facial skin. "You stayin' or runnin' off?"

She blinked in surprise. "Staying."

Buck glanced once more at Dallas. "I'll wait fer you by the track. Hurry it up."

"Yeah, yeah," the teen replied, waiting for him to walk away. He turned back to Ella, handing her his gloves as he led Artemis out of the stall. "I'm surprised you even showed up."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? I said I would be here."

A shrug. "Just am." A cool smirk ghosted his lips as he stared down at her. "Since you're scared of me an' all."

Ella felt her chest tighten. It wasn't exactly her idea of a good time to admit to her boyfriend that him getting sexual with her scared her off, especially standing in the middle of a horse stall, no less. But she had wanted to come forward ever since that night at Buck's, and now that she had, she felt like Dallas was mocking her. Ella didn't know what she wanted, to be perfectly honest, and compared to Dallas, she was still wet behind the ears. But the last thing she wanted was for him to aim jabs at her when she was trying to be honest with him about how she felt.

Her lips turned down. "Dal—"

"Jesus," he muttered gruffly, rolling his eyes at her. "Lighten the hell up, would ya?" Lord, he really had to wonder what the fuck happened to Ella in the past few weeks. She always had something up her sleeve to smart back at him with, and now, she was dull and boring. He'd always enjoyed getting under her skin, because she came back at him, could be fiery and sassy, but now, she was just . . . he didn't know what the fuck she was. "Take a joke, kid."

"I was being serious."

His mouth set in a hard line. "So was I." And when she didn't respond, he shook his head, moving passed her. "Look, I'll see you after the race, dig?"

She shrugged. "Sure."

Her heart seemed to plummet into her stomach as she followed out behind him, only coming to a stop when he suddenly halted at the entry, a deep crease in his forehead as he glared across the lot where two men stood, one who she'd only ever seen once or twice in her life, and the other who somehow looked strangely familiar. They were talking quickly and lowly to each other, and if Ella had to guess based on their body movements and expressions, she would say that they weren't having a very friendly conversation. And when the man to her left turned, a harsh scowl planted on his face, her lips parted in utter shock as she stared at him. Dwayne Mitchell. Her father. She recognized him somehow, and she knew that it was him, not even by the memory of his face in the one picture her mother had folded him out of, but by feeling.

She'd never given the man much thought before, never cared to think much about him once she was old enough to understand, but now, seeing him not even twenty feet in front of her had stirred something within her, and she had the sudden urge to speak to him, to ask him why he left, to inquire if he'd ever thought about her or her mother, if he loved her, if— Her feet were carrying her toward him beyond her own control, her eyes suddenly filled with vast curiosity and wonder, her childhood suddenly ever present in them, the brewing of so many questions lurking in vivid pools of blue.

But her mind was suddenly jolted back into reality when a hand gripped her forearm, pulling her back roughly and rapidly. Her head snapped to the side as she glanced up at Dallas, his own face contorted in anger, though it wasn't exactly directed at her. His fingers were prying into her skin, and Ella winced as she felt them tighten against the bone. Dallas was staring straight ahead, and when somebody spoke, she turned back around, surprise still evident on her face as she stared at her father and the man known as Gentry Knox, owner of the Slash J.

"Don't worry, Winston," Dwayne said with a sarcastic grin, or what was supposed to be a grin. "I don't need that horse anymore. I got what I came here lookin' for." He nodded once to Gentry, stuffing a wad of folded bills into his pocket. "And then some."

Before Dallas could respond though, Ella spoke up, one word rolling off her tongue as she stared at Dwayne, a curious expression on her otherwise blank face.

"Dad?"

For a moment, Dwayne stared at her good and long, but then he snorted, nose wrinkling back as he spit on the ground. "She high or somethin'?" His gaze fell on Dallas, before shifting back to Ella. "I ain't got no kids, never did, never will."

And then he was gone, and Ella felt like she was going to collapse. Her father had recognized her, she was sure of it, but he didn't want her, never would, either. A part of her had always known it, too, but in that moment, she felt like reality had hit her in the face like ice water, and she was suddenly left standing cold and unsure, with only one question swirling around her mind: _Why?_

Dallas's hand jerked her arm, but she didn't budge. And then Tim Shepard rounded the corner, a hard look on his own face as he nodded once to Dallas. "Buck is lookin' for you. Race is about to start, you know." His brows furrowed as he glanced once at Ella. "Want me to take her to the stands?"

"Yeah," he answered, staring at his girlfriend's frozen form. When her eyes moved to meet his, he merely told her that he'd see her after the race, to which she barely nodded. And then Tim was leading her away, giving him a look that read he wanted to speak to him later.

On his way past Gentry Knox, the man called out to him. "Dwayne Mitchell only wanted that horse to trade." He shrugged. "Gave him what he wanted to git him outta here. It's better that way."

And Dallas only glared. Yeah, better that way, for who? It didn't fucking matter, though, because he had a score to settle with Dwayne now, and just the thought of Ella's pathetic face in his mind wasn't really helping the issue. Fuck. Dwayne had still come after him first, and he didn't care that Gentry had given him the dough for the horse to "take care of things." No, he had his own beef with Dwayne Mitchell, and even though he'd won the final race with Artemis that night, it didn't stop the gnawing feeling in the back of his mind, and Ella's face up in the stands only floored his anger all the more.

 _I want 'em back (I want 'em back)_

 _The minds we had (the minds we had)_

 _It's not enough to feel the lack_

 _I want 'em back, I want 'em back, I want 'em_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	20. Calm Before the Storm

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Creedence Clearwater Revival owns "Have You Ever Seen the Rain."**

* * *

 _Someone told me long ago_

 _There's a calm before the storm_

 _I know_

 _It's been comin' for some time_

 **September 29, 1966**

Ella stepped outside of the laundromat, leaning back against the exterior of the building as she eagerly lit a cigarette, a deep sigh spilling from her lips as she closed her eyes for a second. She felt drained, having worked a total of ten out of twelve hours so far . . . since Shannon had went out on maternity leave for the past three—now four—days. There was no one else to cover her shift, so Ella was working extra time to complete her work and Shannon's. It really didn't bother her so much, but she was definitely feeling the toll of the days, and she wished that the last two hours of her shift would go by quickly.

"Hey, Ella," Ponyboy greeted as he approached her with a small smile. But when he noticed the worn expression on her face, his lips turned down. "You okay?"

She nodded, taking a drag of her cigarette. "Yeah, just tired." And then she looked him over, taking note that he, too, looked like he'd been through the mill. "How are you, Ponyboy?"

"Tired." At her concerned look, he continued on, avoiding her gaze. "I haven't spoke to my brothers yet about my . . . nightmares." He licked his lips, flushing a little. "I thought they'd go away like they did when I first started getting them, but I haven't slept for the last few nights, and . . ." He paused for a moment, before brushing the topic aside. "Shoot, it ain't nothin'."

Ella's brows laced together as she stared at her friend. "Ain't nothing?" she repeated, sounding utterly flabbergasted. "Ponyboy, if you're not getting enough sleep, you could end up sick. You really ought to talk to your brothers, especially Darry."

"Oh, don't I know it," he mumbled, leaning beside her on the building's exterior. "But I already know what's gonna happen." A sigh. "Darry's gonna take me to the doctor, the doctor is gonna tell me that I need to become more active and less imaginative, and that's all there is to it." He went quiet for a second as he considered telling Ella about the rest of his troubles. Usually, he kept things like this to himself, but like Cherry Valance, Ella was easy to talk to, and he figured she would understand without being cynical. "The anniversary of Johnny's death was last Sunday, and well, I went to the cemetery to see him, thinking it might do some good, but it only did the opposite."

Ella's shoulders slumped. "Gee, Ponyboy, I'm sorry." Her lips pursed. "I wish there was something that I could do, but—"

"I appreciate you listening," he offered, giving her a small but genuine grin. "I don't know what's eating at me, or why the nightmares are back. I didn't want to say anything because I hate worrying Soda and Darry, mostly because they've got so much going on." His countenance seemed to sour a little. "You know Mary broke it off with Soda?"

The girl nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I heard that. Evie told me," she admitted. "I'm so sorry for Soda, but I understand Mary, too."

Ponyboy huffed. "Sure."

"Her aunt isn't exactly . . . the best person to deal with," she said, flicking her ashes away. "Mary didn't mean to hurt Soda, Ponyboy. She's a good person, and I know Soda knows that as well." Her eyes lowered to the ground, then. "They love each other."

Ponyboy looked away from his friend's downcast face, trying not to think too much about Mary and Soda, especially because he hadn't liked Mary DeVaney at first. He was always wary that she would end up hurting his brother, and in a way, he—and Steve—had been right. Surprisingly, though, Steve had been more understanding about the situation than Ponyboy had, and even though Ponyboy didn't want to blame Mary for her choices, he couldn't help himself. He had grown to like the girl just fine, but once he'd found out that she'd broken Soda's heart, he felt nothing but innate disgust for her, and hell, he didn't even mean it. Blame it on lack of sleep and a sour attitude, but that's how he felt. He glanced once at Ella just then, wondering if she loved Dally the way Soda and Mary loved each other, for Ella had gone out of her way multiple times for the towheaded hood, but did her love run as deep as Mary's for Soda? Or Soda's for Mary?

And then the question spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Do you love Dally?"

Ella's eyes widened, but then she quickly composed herself. "I— I mean, I care about him. I care about him a lot." Pause. "I do love him, yeah. I love him, Ponyboy."

And even though she looked honest, there was sadness in her voice that Ponyboy picked up on, and he realized that there was a prodigious difference in loving someone, strongly loving someone, and then being in love with someone, and it made him feel sorry for Ella, because Dallas could never love her back—not the way she deserved. That kind of emotion didn't run through the hood's veins, and while Ella could give him everything, he would never be able to fully return the feeling. He was too hardened for that kind of thing—the fight for self-preservation had made him that way. Uncaring. Cold. Mean.

But Ella changed the topic, dropping her cigarette butt. "I've been thinking a lot about my dad, and I know he doesn't deserve anything from me, but—"

"You want to see him."

She nodded. "I'd like to, yeah." A shrug. "I think Dallas would blow a gasket if I mentioned that to him, though. He wanted to hunt him down to settle some ridiculous score, but I don't want him to—and he won't listen to me."

The younger teen didn't know what to say to that, but boy howdy, he sure felt sorry for Ella. There had been talk about her father, some _real lousy_ talk, but he wasn't about to tell her that. It was clear that she was torn over the situation, and he couldn't blame her. Hell, he missed both of his parents, but he couldn't imagine a life where he hadn't known either one of them, only to meet them for the first time and have them deny him as their child, like Ella's father had done to her. Glory, but Dally had seemed pissed over it, and it wasn't the first time that Ponyboy was hearing about the blond wanting to go after Mr. Mitchell.

"I wish I knew what to say," he replied, and lit up a cigarette.

Ella shook her head. "No, it's okay. You don't have to. I was just venting."

He nodded, inhaling as he stared straight ahead. He would have to get home soon to heat up the dinner, which consisted of leftovers, but he'd wanted to drop by and see Ella first before heading home. Glory, but it seemed everyone was miserable these days, except for Two-Bit, but that was because he was with Bee Stevens—or Steve and Evie, who were in their own bubble of energy. Looking at Ella then only made him feel worse, and going home to see Soda would only put a damper on his already low spirits.

Oh, glory.

* * *

Gentry Knox was a brute man. Tall, broad, and intimidating were three choice words that could be used to sum up his exterior—and his face, withered and rough, always looked stern and collected, even if he was being practically interrogated by one of Tulsa's notorious hoods. He was never a big fan of Dallas Winston, didn't give two shits about the young thug, and right then, he was getting mighty fed up with listening to him run his fucking mouth about something he hardly knew anything about (or so he said), like Dwayne Mitchell and his crony Cody Burns.

Dallas's mouth was set in a straight line, eyes hard. "So, what? That's it?" His hand slammed down on the bar hardly, the sound echoing about the vacant room. "You're gonna tell me that ol' Dwayne wanted that fucking money because he—"

Gentry jerked around rapidly on the bar stool, giving the teen a shove back. "You shut yer fuckin' trap, Winston, and quit tryin' to stick yer nose where it don't belong. Now, I told you all you need to know, so you just quit prowling around thinkin' that yer ass is gon' tell me shit when none of this is yer damn business. You hearin' me, boy?"

"Don't think I am, Gent," he replied cockily. He leaned back against the bar, ignoring the expression of anger the older man wore. Jesus Christ, but he couldn't imagine what the big deal was about telling him where he could find Dwayne Mitchell. He had still came after him and his horse, threatened him and Buck, and here Gentry was giving him dough he probably didn't owe him—bastard—and because of that, Dallas's earned money was on hold. He was pissed, to say the least, and Gentry was feeding him a line of bullshit about Dwayne needing that money to keep himself on the run, but for what, Dallas didn't know—and he intended to find out. Plus, he'd treated Ella like shit—spit at her and all. "If you ain't gonna tell me what I need to know, then I'll find Dwayne myself and take care of this shit."

The older man shook his head. "You ever stop to think there's a reason he don't wanna be found?"

"Then he shouldn't have stuck his nose into _my_ business," came the brisk response. "You gave that son-of-a-bitch my pay for that race last week."

"Had to," Gent said, lighting up a cigarette. "I told you, Winston, some things are better left unsaid, and if you had any ounce of intelligence, you wouldn't go messing with him."

But Dallas only smirked. "What's he have on you, Gent?" He leaned closer, spinning the man's glass of whiskey between his fingers. "What do you owe him?" His lack of response only drove the hood on, tone becoming more sly as he did. "He do you a favor or something?"

That seemed to do the trick. Gentry jumped up from the stool he'd been seated on, knocking it over in the process, as he came at the blond fully blue in the face. He'd had enough of Winston's antics, coming around and hassling him, asking questions and getting in on his business, and he was going to teach this kid a goddamn lesson, one he should have the first time he came sniffing around. Now, Dallas had always been a good worker of his at the Slash J, did good in races, but he was done with his bullshit. It wasn't none of his business what happened with him, Dwayne Mitchell, and Cody Burns back in the day, and he would be _damned_ if the kid found out about it. And what for? All because he was a little hacked off about his pay being late, or because Dwayne's kid (Winston's girl) was crying the blues 'cause her daddy ignored her? Fuck that.

He slammed Winston back, his fist connecting hardly with his gut and then with his mouth. Dallas was a tough kid, though, and it took Gentry a few more hits to send the kid sprawling backward across the bar, his face a mess with a grim smile etched across his lips as he spit blood out onto the tiled floor. His hand was pressed against his ribs, but if he was in a lot of pain, he didn't exactly show it.

Gentry pointed a thick finger down at him. "You keep outta my business, got it?"

Not waiting for an answer, he finished off the last of his whiskey and headed out, ignoring the guys who were walking in to start the evening rounds. He faintly heard Buck Merril enter the roadhouse from the back, before his thin voice sounded even louder as he began going off about Winston. Yeah, Gentry thought with a scowl, he didn't like Dwayne Mitchell anymore than the kid did at this point, but his past was his own, and he intended to keep it that way. Like he'd told Dallas, it was better to send Dwayne on his way without anyone opening their mouths—and if a payment out of Winston's earnings would get him out of Tulsa quicker, then so be it.

* * *

Evie was, plainly put, a tough girl—for the most part. She wasn't afraid to be who she was, to talk, or dress, or act how she wanted. She didn't really give a damn what anyone had to say about her, whether it was to her face or behind her back—nope. She was who she was, be it loud and obnoxious, or cool and sarcastic, or even an outspoken bitch. But that was who she was, and that was all there was to it—at least that's always how she felt . . . until this particular moment. This moment she felt horrified to knock on Mary DeVaney's front door, and not because she was unsure of herself, but because . . . well, she had never seen a house so imposing. Ella was right, she thought, this place was insane, and she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, considering the circumstances.

Nevertheless, Evie Martin had made the ultimate decision to pay a visit to Mary to drill it into her head that she was making the wrong decision, the wrong decision meaning breaking up with Soda. Evie was no damn drama queen, and at this rate, listening to Steve drone on about how much of a pain in the ass Soda was becoming over this chick (Mary), she was beginning to think that Steve was, so here she was, parked outside of Mary's house, wondering what in the hell she was thinking when this idea popped into her head—other than the fact that it was that very thought that led her here in the first place, duh.

Deciding to just get this over with, the brunette stepped out of her car, ignoring the fact that she was still dressed in her school clothes, which probably would make Mary's aunt turn her head up in the air and ignore her—well, from what Evie had heard about the woman anyway. Oh well. With a determined look, Evie made her way to the porch, climbing the steps carefully as she looked around in awe at the size of the property and house (manor?) itself. Gees, but nobody on her side of town had ever seen anything like this, she was certain.

Knocking on the door, she took a step back, crossing her arms and chewing hard on her gum. This is definitely not what she expected when Ella told her that Mary lived in a large house. Large house was one thing, _this_ was another. But Evie's attention was brought back to the front door as it opened, a tall woman standing on the other side of it, giving her a look that wasn't . . . pleasant.

"We're not interested in any girl scout cookies, or—"

Evie interrupted the woman. "Evie Martin," she said. "I'm lookin' for Mary. Is she home?"

The older woman stared at her with a rather appalled look plastered across her thin face, and Evie's one brow raised. She wondered how in the hell this woman could have thought she was there to sell her cookies when she— Well, she didn't think she looked like she belonged in Girl Scouts. Her skirt was a few inches above her knees, blouse a bit too tight, even though it was slightly covered with a light Fall coat, though not like Sylvia Evans or Cherie Peters liked to wear their clothes, and her heels were just a tad too high. Evie always kept herself stylish, even for a girl of her means, which wasn't much, but her hair was always done and sprayed to perfection, and her makeup was always on par with her outfits and nails. She didn't think she looked like a Girl Scout. Besides, didn't they have to wear uniforms or something, and actually have cookies with them?

"Wait here," Mary's aunt said sternly, giving her one last scrutinizing gaze.

Well, Evie thought as she slammed the door, what in the hell crawled up her ass? Ella had been invited inside, but then again, Ella was also . . . nicer looking, in terms of basic appearance, and Mary's aunt probably thought she was some church going girl with a good background and a decent living place. But Evie? Hell, she guessed that she looked like the type of girl who most likely threatened some real girl scout, and was selling the cookies just to find a decent place to sleep. Dramatic? Yes. But from what Evie had heard about this Aunt Vera chick, she was a very strict woman with little thought of anything else other than her niece, whose life she was determined to dictate.

The door opened, and instead of the Wicked Witch of the West, Mary stood there, surprise evident on her face as she stared at her. Evie feigned a grin, her teeth grinding ever so little as the Wicked Witch came up behind her niece, wrinkling her nose down at Evie's attire.

"Hi, Evie," Mary greeted, sounding utterly perturbed.

The brunette gave an awkward wave. "Are you . . . free?"

Mary's eyes instantly flashed to her aunt who gave a small nod, backing away to leave the girls alone, and Evie visibly relaxed.

"I don't have long," Mary admitted. "We're having supper soon."

Evie almost laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Mary. I just wanna talk to ya for a sec." She flounced down the steps, eager to get off of that porch and away from the Wicked Witch as quickly as she could. "I wanna talk to you about—"

"Soda?"

The brunette jerked around, giving Mary a blank stare. "I think you're making a mistake breaking it off with him." She fumbled around her pocket for a second before she smiled, finding exactly what she was looking for—her cigarettes. "He's awfully upset," she added, lighting up and inhaling. "You ought to talk to him."

Mary led Evie down the driveway. "Aunt Vera will kill me if you smoke on the property," she revealed, hastily walking toward the road. "Just keep your back to the house, or else she'll forbid us from ever hanging out." At Evie's perplexed look, she continued. "Aunt Vera thinks girls who smoke are . . ." A shrug. "Unorthodox."

"Like she thinks about Soda?"

The younger girl looked like she was about to burst into tears. "You have to understand, I didn't want to hurt him." Evie wanted to tell her that it was too late for that, but she continued speaking, her arms wrapping around her middle loosely. "I love him, I do, but Aunt Vera won't allow it, and there's nothing that I can do."

"You can't continue seein' him?" Evie asked, flicking her ashes. "How's your aunt gonna know what you're doing if you're careful?"

Mary made a face. "It's not that." And then she went on to explain all about this ridiculous cotillion ball or whatever, and that she was an available debutante, and Aunt Vera planned to find her a perfect suitor before she became a spinster, blah, blah, blah. ". . . and I can't hurt Soda like that. He deserves a girl who can be there for him always, who doesn't have to conceal her love." Her eyes lowered. "I can't give him that, Evie."

Evie could both see and hear the desperation in the younger girl's face, and a part of her sympathized, wondering how she would feel if it were her and Steve in the same predicament. But it wasn't, and she was only an outsider in this situation, anxious to help both of her friends, but unsure of what to do. Of course, she understood Mary's dilemma, but there had to be a way—if only Mary would shove her feelings aside and just continue seeing Soda regardless of what her aunt said or did. Then again, how long would it last for? How long could Ella play decoy?

"Well, the way I see it, Mary, the only girl for him is you," she eventually responded with. "I wouldn't let nothing come between me an' Steve, and if I were you, I'd go and see Soda and get this straightened out before you really do realize how much of a mistake you're making."

Mary looked like she wanted to agree, but she was also reluctant. "Evie—"

"Trust me, Mary . . . go to him."

* * *

Ella stepped out of the shower that night, wrapping herself up in a towel and wiping the condensation from the mirror, her reflection staring back at her. She studied herself for a moment, taking in the worn look of her face, the circles that were beginning to appear beneath her eyes, which were less energetic than usual. Working twelve hours was fine, and the money was great, especially since she and her mother had been able to pay off most of the hospital expenses together. But Ella only continued to worry about herself, her future, and her mother, and what would become of her if something were to happen to them. She didn't want to have to think like that, didn't want those thoughts to occupy her mind, but she couldn't help it—this had become her reality since the beginning of the Summer.

Drying off, she did her usual routine before slipping into her nightgown, the silky material flowing around her petite frame as she made her way out to the laundry room to toss her clothes into the wash for the next morning's load. Her hair hung loosely over her left shoulder, the damp strands moistening her nightgown. With a soft sigh, she grabbed her brush from the bathroom counter before heading into her room. It was quiet with her being the only one there, her mother working at the bar and leaving her home for the night by her lonesome again. Strangely, Ella found comfort in being by herself, enjoyed her free time to do whatever she wanted, even if that simply meant taking a soothing shower and listening to her records for a while before going to bed.

But the girl's relaxed state of mind was interrupted immediately as she stepped foot into her bedroom, only to find her boyfriend laying back on her bed, his boot clad feet propped up on the mattress with the soles pressed into her quilt. Her eyes were wide, mouth agape as she stared at him in shock, not that he could see her yet, as his eyes were closed, arms folded behind his head.

"What are you doing?" she all but screeched, placing the brush on her table.

Dallas's eyes opened, and he grinned at her. "That any way to greet me, sweets?"

"Oh my gosh," Ella said, studying the cuts and bruises on his face. His cheek was swollen, a large bruise forming beneath the redness surrounding the area below his eye and beside his nose. "What happened?" she asked, leaning over to inspect the damage.

But Dallas pushed her away as he sat up, ignoring her sudden motherly disposition. "Shut it, would ya?" he said, though not roughly. "I got into a fight, that's all."

Ella was ever persistent, though. "With who?" She sounded worried. But then her face twisted as she glared at him hard. "And how the heck did you get into my room?"

"Christ, you gon' yell at me all damn night?" he bit out, giving her an icy look. "I didn't come here to listen to you scream in my face, so if that's all yer gonna do, I'm outta here."

She grabbed his arm as he stood up, her fingers enclosing around his wrist loosely. "Don't go," she mumbled, and dropped her hand. "I'm sorry. Do you want ice?"

Dallas stared at her for a second, surprised to see her acting so . . . was obedient the right word? Hell, he didn't know why, but that didn't sit well with him. He usually preferred Ella when she was feisty and sassy, not compliant and the like. Christ almighty, though, taking a closer look, he realized that she appeared more weary than he'd ever seen her, but he knew all the hours she worked at the laundromat were a drag, not that it was a big deal to him. He'd give credit where it was due, though—Ella was a hard worker. He'd barely seen her with all those damn hours she was working, which was why he had decided to drop in and surprise her ass, but apparently, that wasn't going as well as he expected it to—not that anything ever did for Dallas Winston. So, he decided to take a different approach, not in the mood to put up with anymore bullshit, whether it be from Ella or not.

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." And then he flopped back down onto the bed, waiting for her to follow suit. Only she didn't. "The hell's the matter with you?"

What he didn't expect was for Ella to slide herself into his lap, her weight resting on his left leg and her right side pressing against his chest. Well, he thought with a small smirk, that was bold for her, because Ella usually didn't do shit like that, didn't ever make any sort of move, no matter how small, unless he initiated it first. But something was off, and though he wasn't the emotional type, Ella was still on the small list of people that he gave a shit about, and he really didn't want to deal with her bullshit forever, and besides, he liked her usual demeanor better.

"You're still looking, aren't you?"

He shifted so that he could see her face better. "For your old man?" A scowl crossed his face. "'Course I am. Did you think that I was gonna give up just because you want me to?" His finger twirled a piece of her wet hair. "We've got unfinished business."

Ella sighed, pulling away, but his arm locked around her waist. "Does it matter, though? You're going to get your money from Gentry either way, even if it's late."

Dallas's face immediately twisted, his arm jerking the girl around so that they were practically facing each other. "That ain't the goddamn point, sweets, and the sooner you get that through that head of yours, the better." His eyes were narrowed as his gaze bore into her own. "Dwayne Mitchell came after me and Buck, and don't think for a fucking second that he's walkin' away with my earnings just 'cause Gentry Knox wants to get him outta town faster."

"He's on the run." It wasn't a statement, and Ella felt sick. She'd always had a feeling that her father wasn't a good person, and right then, she figured Dallas had a right to be angry, even if she couldn't justify his feelings about wanting to go after him. But it still bothered her that Dwayne didn't want anything to do with her, and it hurt to think that she still—despite everything—wanted to talk to him, even if only for a minute. Her gaze shifted and she looked down, wiggling herself out of Dallas's hold just a little to move back into her previous position. "I know I can't stop you, but I wish you wouldn't go after him."

"You're right, you can't," he replied, ignoring the rest of her statement, his hand moving back into her hair. He continued fingering the damp strands before moving lower and brushing against her side, moving up and down lightly before trailing down her hip and thigh, and finally caressing the bare skin of her leg, his movements intentionally raising her nightgown a little higher each time.

She breathed. "You know Ponyboy's been sick?"

"What?" he asked, a bite in his tone, his movements coming to an abrupt stop. He hadn't seen the little shit in a while, and he wasn't sure when Ella had, either, so this was news to him. "Since when?"

"It's his nightmares," she answered, turning to look him in the eyes. "He's been having them again, and I've been worried. I told him he should talk to his brothers, but he doesn't want to worry them." She looked guilty, as if she had just betrayed some huge secret or something. "I'm just concerned about him, you know? I don't want to see anything happen to—"

But Dallas cut her off. "Ain't nothin' gonna happen to that kid, you hear me?" At her nod, he continued on. "I'll see what I can do, yeah?"

"Yeah."

His hand began its prior movements again as he spoke, voice lowering just a tad. "Don't worry, girl. It'll all work out."

He didn't give her a chance to respond, instead twisting his body around and spilling her backward onto her mattress before shifting on top of her. She didn't stop him when he pressed his lips to her own very heatedly, she didn't stop him when he moved to her neck, hands groping her sides and inching her nightgown up second by second, and she didn't stop him even as his lips trailed along the upper half of her chest. She only made any sign of protest when he tried pulling her nightie off completely, her arms crossing over herself to prevent him from lifting it up any more.

His eyes met hers, her pupils enlarged and darker than ever, irises glazed a little. "I'm not"—Her voice cracked as she muttered out the last word—"ready."

Pulling back a little, Dallas shifted his weight, moving off of her and sitting up. He reached for his pack of cigarettes, which were placed on Ella's night table, and lit one up, only turning to glance back at her as she sat up beside him, her cheeks for once not coated with redness from embarrassment, but instead just slightly flushed. She was quiet for a moment, the only sound being both of their breathing, and Ella wondered if Dallas was disappointed. She wasn't going to ask him, but she felt disappointed with herself, wondering why she was so . . . afraid? . . . to let herself go.

She climbed off of her bed, making her way to the bathroom and grabbing her forgotten brush on the way. Once inside, she flicked the light on and began brushing her hair, her eyes nearly popping out of her head when she noticed the red blotches on her neck and the one very small . . . hickey right below her right ear—oh, glory. She inched closer to the mirror to inspect it, both feeling slightly embarrassed and slightly in awe. She had a hickey. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She blinked once or twice, running her finger over it before pulling her hair back over her shoulder to hide it, flicking the light off and heading back to her bedroom.

Dallas was smoking the last of his cigarette, his eyes trailing her form as she entered the room again, a small glint in his own orbs as he stared at her.

"Are you staying?" she asked sheepishly, though her voice remained audible and direct.

His brow quirked. "Maybe. For a little while, I guess."

The brown-haired girl climbed back onto her bed, stretching out on her back and letting her head rest on her pillow, the feeling of sleep beginning to consume her. She hadn't realized that she was so tired until she leaned back, her body relaxing. She felt Dallas move as he leaned over to stub his cigarette in the ashtray, before turning the light off on the dresser, the room going almost dark. He then leaned back on the bed beside her, crossing his ankles and folding his arms back behind his head. Ella blinked, her eyes adjusting in the dark as she stared at his still form, her heart beating a little harder as she moved closer to him.

"You're asking for trouble, sweets," he mused, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Ella froze for a second, but then smiled ever so little. "Shut up."

Her head rested on his arm, her body curling up into his side as she closed her eyes, breathing in and out slowly, his scent wafting into her nose and the sound of his own breathing in her ears. In that moment, Ella felt secure, and the looming thought that she was snuggled into the side of Dallas Winston, one of the most dangerous people in town, rested at the forefront of her mind. But for all everyone spoke about him—whether it be bad, which it usually was, or outlandish—she realized that he, too, was only human, and no matter how stony and hard he was, he did have feelings, no matter what anyone else chose to believe.

But this side of Dallas was only the calm before the storm, and Ella feared what would happen if he found Dwayne—or worse, if Dwayne found him first.

"By the way, sweets," he whispered teasingly in the darkness, "you should learn to lock your window."

 _I want to know_

 _Have you ever seen the rain_

 _Comin' down on a sunny day?_

* * *

 **And there's chapter twenty! Can y'all believe it?**

 **Feedback is always appreciated! :3**


	21. Hold Your Head Up

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Argent owns "Hold Your Head Up."**

* * *

 _And if it's bad_

 _Don't let it get you down, you can take it_

 _And if it hurts_

 _Don't let them see you cry, you can make it_

 **October 4, 1966**

Ginger approached Ella with a stern look, eyeing her work disapprovingly. Her forehead was glistening with sweat beads from working near the industrial dryers all morning, her hands and arms red from dry cleaning. But Ginger was a tough woman, and she didn't exactly think highly of her newest employee, Ella Mitchell. It wasn't that she didn't like the girl, that wasn't it, but . . . personally, she just didn't like her work ethic. Oh, sure, she finished everything on time, and for working two shifts in the course of a twelve hour time span, she did alright for herself. But Ginger was firm and demanding, and Ella's lack of appreciation for her job and brazen attitude just didn't sit well with her. Plus, she was seeing that hoodlum that had been lurking around outside, something that Ginger wouldn't tolerate.

The girl glanced up at her, a crease forming between her eyebrows. "Is something wrong?" she asked, her voice rather breathy. She placed a folded towel beside her on the counter before reaching for a pair of dress slacks from the line. "I color coordinated Mr. Vogel's shirts as requested."

Ginger's eyes drifted toward the finished basket, before she glanced back at Ella critically. "I see that, but that's not what I want to speak with you about, Miss Mitchell." When the teen's attention was on her, Ginger continued on. "Mrs. McAndrew phoned in earlier this morning with a complaint about her daughter's ball gown that she picked up yesterday afternoon."

Ella remembered the woman coming in and picking up the gown, but she couldn't recall anything wrong with it. She had been the one to dry clean and press it, and when she was finished, she hung it in the back along with a few other orders and only went to retrieve it when Mrs. McAndrew came in to pick it up. Ella had it wrapped inside of its protective holder and hadn't noticed anything wrong with it, so she was confused, to say the least.

"I don't understand," she replied in a thin voice, sounding as perplexed as she looked.

But Ginger only scowled all the more. "Well, Miss Mitchell, since you were the one who took care of Mrs. McAndrew's order, I'm afraid that this responsibility falls on you." She shook her head. "We can't have incidents like this, Miss Mitchell. You have already messed up multiple orders for different customers, and I'm afraid that you are no longer fit to press or sort laundry." A sigh. "With that said, I am going to move you to basic washing, drying, and folding."

The girl's shoulders dropped, and she watched Ginger walk away as she rolled her neck around a bit to loosen her muscles. She was so damn tired, and she really didn't want to argue with Ginger any more than she wanted to yell at herself. But the thing was that she certainly didn't remember anything being wrong with that gown, and the last she'd checked, it was perfectly fine—not one wrinkle in sight, so what had happened between Monday night and Tuesday morning? Stepping outside, Ella thought that Ginger was just being a grouch, or Mrs. McAndrew had studied the gown with a magnifying glass and was sour over microscopic dust particles. Lordy, Ella wanted to just toss her hands up in the air and quit already—it had been a long day, and it was barely the afternoon, gosh almighty.

But Ginger and Mrs. McAndrew were the least of her worries, because walking in her direction was none other than Cherie Peters, a grin plastered on her face, a cigarette held between her fingers as she practically waltzed right over to Ella, the younger girl placing her hands inside of her dress pockets and giving her a bizarre expression. Cherie merely stared at her for a moment, sizing her up, before her brow quirked, hip jutting out as she took a drag of her cigarette.

"Don't you look downright miserable," she commented, and then chuckled.

"What do you want?" Ella returned, lips pressing together. She hadn't seen Cherie Peters in quite some time, and truthfully, she didn't know why the girl was so fixated with her. She didn't exactly find herself all that interesting, to be honest. But then she remembered Cherie still had feelings for Dallas, or she just wanted to be nosy or something like that. Ella wasn't in the mood, though. "I'm really not interested in anything you have to say, so—"

But Cherie only cackled. "Oh, don't be like that, sugar. I ain't here to hassle you or nothin'." She winked as she dragged her bottom lip between her teeth. "I only came over here because you look so . . . down in the dumps." Her laugh was irritating. "What's the matter? Dally don't do you good enough?"

"Oh, shove off," Ella fired back. "My relationship is none of your damn business, so I'd appreciate if you kindly would leave me alone."

Really, Ella was tired and dragging ass, and she just wasn't in the mood to get stepped on by anyone else that day. She wasn't a fighter or a loud person by default, and clearly, her raised voice was enough to stun Cherie, if only for a moment, but it didn't matter. Cherie was a hot-tempered girl, and even if she enjoyed getting a rise out of Ella whenever she was bored, she wasn't going to let the smaller girl tell her off and think that she had the upper hand. Ella remained firm, though, her expression testy as she glared at Cherie with vexation lingering beneath the surface.

Cherie took a step forward, crushing her cigarette against the exterior of the laundromat as she stared hardly into Ella's blue eyes, a small smirk lethally making its way across her mouth. She didn't hate the girl—she didn't even know her really—but she didn't like her. Honestly, Cherie didn't give two shits about Dallas Winston, either, although she would drop to her knees like an obedient dog if he so much as looked at her in a certain way. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Dallas had made her look like a goddamn fool, and she wanted nothing more than to ruin anything—anything meaning any girl—that got too close to him.

"Well, I'll tell you somethin', girlie," she said, bitterness seeping through her voice. "You're only foolin' yourself, 'cause Dally don't care about nothin' but himself, and when you spread your legs, he'll toss your petite ass to the curb with the rest of us." She sneered. "You ain't nothin' special, and he'll get tired of you, just wait and see."

Ella scowled. "Yeah? Well, we can't all be girls like you."

And with that, she turned on her heel to head back inside, leaving Cherie standing there with sheer bewilderment reflected over her countenance. Her face twisted, and even though she knew she wasn't going to do anything more to sabotage Dally or his little girlfriend, she was going to sit back and enjoy the show, whatever cataclysmic events it would bring along with it. In a way, she almost felt awfully sorry for Ella Mitchell, because she was dumber than she looked, and Cherie knew that when fooling around with Dally Winston you had to be smart.

Oh, what a shame it was indeed.

* * *

Officer Henderson was shaking his head. "You really enjoy aggravating people, don't you, Winston?" At the blond's cocky smirk, the man scowled. "Just because you completed your senior year last June doesn't mean you're off the hook, so I'd quit acting like a wiseass if I was you."

Dallas's lips folded back in a grim smile, small teeth peeking through. "So what's it gonna be this time, Henderson?" He kicked his feet out in front of himself, belching loudly. "We gonna talk about what I'm doin' with myself, or . . . how 'bout what you've been doin' with yourself?" He winked. "Valerie still treatin' you good, Jackie?"

Jack Henderson sighed almost dramatically, leaning forward on the table with his hands resting in front of himself. He never enjoyed his "visits" with Dallas Winston, but he'd been his parole officer since he was young, the only one who hadn't pawned him off on somebody else . . . yet. It seemed that Dallas was somewhat mellowed out in comparison to his usual behavior, but Henderson knew better than to ever trust the former con. Once, several years back, Dallas had acted decently—decently enough for him, that is—even spoke with manners and all, but it was only a ploy so that he could make his great escape as soon as Henderson stepped out of the room to get him something to drink—the punk. After that, he knew never to put one ounce of trust into the now eighteen year old hood.

"How was your Summer, Dallas?" he tried, wanting to be done with this bullshit as much as the kid did. Jesus, it was never easy dealing with Dallas Winston, and Jack had to wonder why in the hell he never did anything with himself that wasn't illegal. Dallas had potential, even if he was a rebellious little shit head. "Doing anything worthwhile with yourself?"

The hood shrugged. "Like I tell ya all the time, Jack, a little bit of this and a little bit of that." He then shifted in the chair, tilting it back on two legs. "It keeps me going, know what I'm saying?"

"What about a job?" he asked next. "An honest one?"

Dallas gave him a hard look, lips pressed together tightly. He had an honest job, even though it wasn't much, but he worked the bar three nights a week for Buck, paid the cowboy rent for room and board, cleaned horse shit, and participated in the rodeo all Summer long. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did Jack think he did for the past few months? Well, other than that time he'd gotten brought in for questioning because of Dusty dick-face Lewis. But that was another story. Still, it wasn't like he was sitting somewhere under a bridge with a thumb up his ass. Hell, he'd even done some Summer reading, which reminded him that he was still really tempted to beat Ponyboy's face in with his own book—bonehead. But he had been doing honest work . . . for the most part.

His latest escapade involved hunting down a fugitive named Dwayne Mitchell. He'd spoken to Tim after the final rodeo event the other week, and Tim hadn't been able to find much out about Dwayne, except that he was on the run, wanted for all kinds of shit. When he'd approached Gentry with that information, the man nearly belted him across the mouth before threatening to split it the other way, not that Dallas was afraid of him or nothing. But Dwayne was a lot of trouble, and if Dallas didn't know any better . . . hell, he might've even helped the poor fucker on his way, but he'd come after him about his horse, concocting some bullshit tale until he was able to get the dough he needed from Gentry to lay low for a while before heading out of town. Truthfully, Dallas knew that Gentry knew where the fuck Dwayne and Cody were, but whatever Dwayne and Cody had on him must've been enough to keep Gentry Knox quiet—at least for now.

The thought would have been funny . . . especially because Dwayne was Ella's old man.

But Dallas bit his tongue on that subject, eyes meeting Henderson's. "I got myself a job, Jack. I've had one all Summer, where have you been?"

"Really?" Henderson almost sounded surprised, and it reflected in his expression. "What are you doing, Winston?" And then his brows furrowed. "And horse racing don't cut it."

"The rodeo's over, man," Dallas replied coolly. "But I got myself a job—an honest one, too. Shit, Jack, I almost expected clapping from you. What? You about to take a shit in your pants?"

Henderson scoffed. "Are you gonna tell me or not, Dallas? I don't have all day here, so you can either make this go quicker by cooperating, or you can sit in a cell until you're ready to do so."

"You don't have any charges on me, Jackie."

The older man's mouth curved upward. "Oh, I can make some real quick if you keep acting like a damn smartass."

Really, Henderson never understood Dallas, never. He was one way one second, and the next, he was something else. He was a loyal friend, though, a great ally, and Henderson knew that, but why he could never simply listen and take orders was a mystery to him. Dallas could have made things easier on himself if he only learned how to listen. But he'd been dealing with convicts for a long time, and Dallas was in no way the worst—close to, but not fully there. Henderson could see that Dallas was deeply a good kid, in his own . . . fucked up way, but he was. He simply chose to act out and make the wrong choices, which was a result of his upbringing and lack of emotional care.

The teen's voice brought him back to the present. "You were close, Henderson. I muck horse shit every damn morning. Even train the ponies, too. Hell, I broke and tamed a mustang a few weeks back, so I've been keepin' busy." And then he sarcastically grinned. "Do I get a balloon?"

Henderson, for all his good worth, rolled his eyes. "No, but I have a few more questions and then I can send you on your merry little way, so quit being a wise guy."

"When are ya gonna answer _my_ questions, Jackie?"

Ignoring Winston's—the pain in the ass—inquiry, Henderson glanced once more at his file. "You do realize, Dallas, that you haven't been locked up in over a year now." His hands folded. "That's quite an improvement, especially for you."

But then the blond scowled. "Yeah, ain't that somethin'?"

Jesus Christ, he thought icily, he _hadn't_ been doing anything worthwhile. A year ago . . . hell, he should have been fucking dead for over a year now, not improving himself and his reputation. Fuck, but he was pretty certain that Tim was the toughest hood on their side of town now. How the hell had he become such an . . . honest person? But then he considered that fucking five year sentence which he couldn't seem to make an escape from, not even a narrow one, and he pondered his life for a moment. He wasn't really going anywhere far, that he knew, and then he thought about his life at this moment versus what it was like a year ago and before . . .

Yeah, he was becoming too much of an . . . Ella.

* * *

Ponyboy's head was pounding hardly, the sun beating down on his face not doing much for his eyes. He was so damn tired, his eyes slitting as he continued his walk home from the high school. Glory, but he could barely remember the last time he'd had a good night's worth of sleep, for the past few weeks had been nothing but nightmare after nightmare, and he couldn't understand it, couldn't figure it out. It had mostly started after he'd visited Johnny's grave, and even though he was determined to admit that he had long come to accept the events that he reshaped his life one year ago, he knew that he never made a true and full recovery. Obviously he hadn't, because he wouldn't be having these issues.

Rubbing a hand over his forehead, fingers pressing against the sensitive flesh, he kicked a rock, his feet sluggish. He wasn't that far from his house, but not feeling well made it seem that much longer. To make matters worse, he had fallen asleep in class, and he knew that his teacher would probably call Darry to explain the incident. He was gonna have to tell his brothers soon about the night terrors, he would have to—it was really taking a toll.

Coming to a stop, Ponyboy leaned back against the fence surrounding the vacant lot, blinking once as he stared across the field. If he squinted, he could almost imagine seeing Johnny sitting there, his legs bent up as he rested his back against the old car seat. He could imagine his face, always so lost looking, his eyes large and spooked, and his heart seemed to sink as he remembered that night one year ago, a memory forever haunting his mind no matter how much he tried to let it go. Oh, time hadn't healed anything, he thought bitterly, it only made it easier to deal with. But life went on, and with it so did everyone and everything—and that was a lesson Ponyboy was coming to learn, whether or not he liked it, but he would find a way to cope, one way or the other.

A car rolled up beside him, and he felt his body tense up ever so slightly. Nobody had bothered him, nobody bothered to mention anything to him since . . . the issue with George and Craig last school year, the entire incident with Johnny and Bob, and even Dallas, long forgotten. It was as if nobody cared anymore, because like him, they were moving on. Still, even though the long vendetta with the Socs and the greasers seemed to be dying out, Ponyboy couldn't help that he was still on edge when any car followed behind him, or came to a stop near him.

"Hey, kid," a familiar voice rang out, and Ponyboy jerked around, eyes broadening as he stared back at Tim Shepard, who was leaning over the passenger seat, focus on him. "What the hell are you doin'?"

A shrug. "Nothin'," he answered. "Just thinking, I guess."

Tim didn't look surprised, but there was a hint of something else lurking in his otherwise menacing orbs that Ponyboy couldn't place. Then again, Tim Shepard was a hard guy to figure out, as he didn't let anyone penetrate his mind or his thoughts—like Dally, he was too tough for that, two characters made of stone. No wonder the two of them got along so well, Ponyboy thought, squinting to see the older hood better from his angle.

Tim pushed the door open, brows knitting together. "You want a lift, kid?"

The younger teen shrugged apathetically. "Sure. Thanks." Climbing into the car, he was met with the smell of smoke and booze, the familiar scent of the Shepard household as well. Ponyboy hadn't ever spent much time there, but once, Curly brought him along to get booze for a party. He remembered that night alright—it was one he couldn't forget. He'd gotten drunk, could hardly stand up straight, and he'd come home to face a very ticked off Darry, swearing the next morning that he wouldn't ever lay a hand on alcohol again. He eyed Tim for a moment, internally cringing at his hardened face. "How's it goin'?" he decided to ask, voice level.

"Alright, not much action been happening," he answered. "What about you?" He looked at the kid beside him quickly. "You see Curly around lately? That little shit is supposed to be in school."

Ponyboy could have laughed at that thought alone—Tim making Curly go to school every day because he didn't want the fuzz sniffing around his doorstep since that entire feud with Dusty Lewis, along with the fact that Curly was previously being investigated because of that murder a few months back. He wondered if Tim was really that concerned about his kid brother, but then again, it seemed that no matter how lousy they treated each other, Tim always had Curly's back—always. Ponyboy supposed it was just a common rule. Like in gangs, you took up for your buddies, no matter what they did, and he knew that both Darry and Soda would always be there for him, so even though Curly and Tim had their disputes, they had each others backs.

On the other hand, Tim hated playing guardian to his kid brother, but the last fucking thing he wanted was social services paying visits more than usual. Curly was a little over a year shy of eighteen, but Angela . . . would only be turning fifteen. Keeping the fuzz away for now was the most he could do by keeping Curly under wraps.

Ponyboy answered almost quietly, and Tim had to lean his head over a little to hear him better. "I see him around sometimes, but not every day."

Tim merely nodded, not real satisfied with that answer, but what could he do? It's not like Ponyboy Curtis was Curly's bodyguard, even though the idea was fucking hysterical. Really, Tim didn't give a shit if Curly stayed in school or not, but he really wished that his kid brother would try a little more, not that he would ever tell him that. Nope. Curly would probably laugh his ass off, call him a fucking pussy for giving a goddamn in the first place, and then Tim would end up beating the shit out of him. Well, he supposed the only person that might end up graduating high school would be Angela. Maybe.

Pulling up in front of the Curtis's house, Tim nodded once to Dallas, who was leaning against the rail on the porch, his eyes narrowed as he watched the kid climb out of the car. Stubbing his cigarette beneath his heel, the blond made his way over, clapping Ponyboy on the shoulder as he passed him, brows furrowing at the look Tim was giving him.

"What's up?" he asked, bending down so he could talk through the window.

Tim jerked his chin in Ponyboy's direction. "Found him by that vacant lot just . . . starin' off into space. Thought you might want to know."

"He seem okay to you?"

"Yeah, for the most part," Tim responded. "Maybe not all there, but he seemed . . . fine."

Dallas shot a look over his shoulder where Ponyboy was making his way up the porch steps, a crease in his forehead as he watched him walk sluggishly toward the door. He remembered Ella telling him about Ponyboy having nightmares, and he figured he ought to have a chat with the kid or something. Hell, who knew? Maybe he already told Superman and Sodapop, but . . . yeah, he thought, he did look out of it, Jesus Christ. If it wasn't obvious a few seconds ago, Ponyboy made it blatantly so by tripping right through the front door, books dropping on the ground as his body flew forward.

The blond shook his head, turning back to Tim who looked more stoic. "Yeah," he finished. "I'll talk to his brothers." When Tim nodded, he turned on his heel, making his way in behind Ponyboy as Tim pulled away, the sound of his car fading around the block.

Grabbing Ponyboy by the back of his shirt, the hood pulled him to his feet, using his other arm to wrap around his frame to support it. Once he was on his feet, Ponyboy pulled out of the older teen's grasp, bending down to gather his fallen school books and moving to place them on the coffee table. Tim was right, Dallas noted, Ponyboy looked sick, like he hadn't slept in days. He was sure the kid would have been smart enough to tell his brothers if he was having issues with sleeping, but then again, he reminded himself that this was Ponyboy he was talking about.

"Hey, kid," he called, following him into the kitchen. "You feelin' okay, huh?"

Ponyboy shrugged. "I'm just tired, is all," he answered lamely. But as Dallas continued to scrutinize him, he grew wary under his icy gaze. "Look, Dal, I had a long day, it's nothin'."

"Those nightmares of yours ain't just nothin', kid, so cut the shit," came the brisk response, and Ponyboy's eyes went start wide. _Fucking bingo_. He watched the younger teen remain standing still, his body tense as he stared straight ahead, and Dallas figured he was piecing together that Ella had spilled the beans, not that he gave a shit, because he didn't. It took all but a second for Ponyboy to sit down at the table, and Dallas followed suit, pulling a chair around and sitting on it backward, arms crossed on the back frame. "So what is it, kid? You sick or something?"

"No, I ain't sick," he replied solemnly. "I told you . . . it ain't nothing. If Ella told you I was having nightmares or something, it ain't true."

The blond's lips pressed into a tight line. "Who said anything about Ella?"

Ponyboy sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I know she's the one who told you about the nightmares and all, but . . . it ain't true anymore." His leg began bouncing a little, and Dallas could tell that he was clearly aggravated. "I just wasn't sleeping well for a while, but it's all good now. I'm fine, and if there's an issue, I'll talk to my brothers, dig?"

Dallas wanted to whack Ponyboy over the fucking head, tell him to quit sounding like a goddamn baby and fess the hell up, but the kid looked so fucking drained, and he just wasn't having it. He realized then that Ponyboy hadn't opened his mouth to either one of his brothers about his issue, and it was clear enough that it wasn't resolved, either. Ponyboy might have thought he was a good liar, but Dallas was better, and he knew that the kid was lying right then.

"Yeah, you do that . . . and so will I," Dallas said, eyeing him critically. Two could play this game, he thought. "In fact, Darry gets home in a little while, don't he? Perhaps, I'll stay and wait for him."

Ponyboy was getting frustrated. "Come on, Dal, be a buddy and don't say anything, alright? I can take care of myself just fine, and I don't need anyone getting into my business. Darry don't need to be worrying about this. And neither does Soda. They both got too many worries of their own, and I don't need to make things worse for them." He grew quiet. "I don't need a repeat of last year."

Dallas's brows pressed together immediately, mouth curving downward. Sometimes, he really just wanted to beat Ponyboy's face in, make him open his eyes and see reason. Jesus Christ, but he couldn't see the forest through the trees, and he was supposed to be the smart one? Holy Jesus. Well, Dallas thought, running a hand through his white-blond hair, Pony sure lacked any form of common sense, that was for certain.

But Dally was growing angry, never one for patience. "Yeah, I'll be a buddy. I'll be a buddy by tellin' your brothers that you're sick and ain't sayin' nothin', 'cause guess what, kid? You ain't helping them or yourself by keepin' quiet. You think you can take care of yourself, huh? The only thing you're doin' is the opposite, so either you talk to Darrel, or I will." His face was twisted up into a sneer by then. "Take your pick."

There was a silence that engulfed them, and for a moment, Dally thought that the kid wouldn't budge, only he had, and the next words out of his mouth weren't what he was expecting to hear. Usually, Pony kept his trap shut good when he was around him, but ever since last October, after everything had begun to settle down, Ponyboy became more brazen, more outspoken, and Dallas recalled Two-Bit once telling him that he and Steve witnessed him hold off a few Socs with a busted up pop bottle. They were there and ready to back him up, but he had scared them off plenty, telling them that he'd had about all he could take from them. Dallas wasn't surprised, and he vaguely remembered telling the kid to get hard, to get tough, that nothing could touch him that way.

But Ponyboy's response was something he wasn't expecting.

"They're about Johnny," he admitted, remaining almost apathetic. "They used to be about Mom and Dad, but I could never remember them, not really at least. Now they're about Johnny Cade, the night that he died." His lips pursed for a second. "I thought I was over it, but when I went to visit him on the anniversary of his death, they just started up again." A shrug. "I don't know why, either. Hell, I visited him on his birthday back in March and was fine."

Dallas blinked in surprise, but his features remained fixed. He understood what the kid was going through, for he had been suffering the nightmares sporadically for over a year at this point, but he ignored them, telling himself that he would get over them eventually, that he didn't care none, and here he was telling Ponyboy to do something for himself. Christ, he was a fucking hypocrite, wasn't he? But that didn't bother him—not in the least. Then again, Ponyboy was different, and the last thing anyone needed was him getting sick and fucking up. No, he was supposed to be the one going places and doing shit, and he didn't need to spoil that by fucking himself over.

"Well," he replied, staring at him hardly, "you ought to tell Darry, kid. He'll know what to do, and if that means you gotta see a doctor, then so be it." He stood up, then, pushing the chair in. "The only way you're gonna have a repeat of last year is if we're putting you six feet under for not taking care of yourself, yeah?"

Ponyboy could feel his eyes going round. Dally usually didn't talk like that, didn't give a crap about anyone but himself, and yet, here he was telling him to take care of himself and to get help. Hell, Pony almost expected the older teen to call him a pansy ass for having the nightmares to begin with, but then again, come to think of it, Dallas hadn't ever said anything to him about the issue in the past, and everyone in the gang knew about it. But not even Steve had gotten on his case about it, either. Yeah, he figured he ought to talk to Darry. Dally was right.

He nodded, though. "Yeah."

"Good," Dally said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Glad we had that conversation." He pointed a finger at him for good measure. "Make sure you talk to Darry, kid. I mean it. Don't make me beat your head in, ya hear?" At his nod, he continued on. "Oh, and Ella tells me you've been askin' about that book of yours . . . well, I'm workin' on it, so quit getting bent outta shape, or whatever . . ."

And then he was gone, leaving Ponyboy seated at the table by his lonesome. Ponyboy wondered about Dallas, though. He still didn't like him too much, but he was beginning to come around, even if only a little bit. He'd never really taken the time to get to know Dally, but the more he talked to him—hard and mean and cold though he was—he was beginning to see different layers of him, and a part of him was beginning to realize what Johnny found so admirable about him . . .

* * *

When someone knocked on the door later that evening, the house went practically silent. Darry, Soda, and Ponyboy each glanced at each other with expressions reflecting bewilderment. Nobody ever knocked on their door, not even guys in the neighborhood looking for a place to sleep for the night. Their door was always unlocked for that reason, and Darry wasn't real worried about burglars or anything like that. Hell, it wasn't like they had anything worth stealing, and . . . well, he wasn't afraid of anybody or anything, but what did unnerve him was the fact that somebody had _knocked_ on the door. He stood up, making his way over to pull the door open, his brows raising at the sight of who was standing there, perplexity beginning to form across his otherwise stern features.

"Mary?" he asked, looking the girl over. "What are you doing here?"

She looked upset, that much Darry could tell. "Is Soda home?" she questioned, her voice cracking ever so little as she stared up at the taller boy. "I know it's late, but I need to see him. I need to talk to him."

Darry shook his head. He never cared about anyone coming into the house, no matter what hour of the night, or morning, it was. He just wasn't used to anyone actually announcing themselves, like Mary had, and for a moment, he considered on asking her to leave. As far as he was concerned, she was the one who had broken up with Soda, and like his youngest brother, he agreed that Mary was in the wrong for leading Soda on knowing what would (or could) happen. But Soda was a different matter, and even though he was upset by the events that had taken place, he wasn't mad at the girl. Darry sure didn't know what the hell was really going on between them, except that Mary's aunt was a strict woman, one who controlled the girl's life, and Mary didn't want to hurt Soda.

But, glancing over his shoulder at his younger brother, he nodded, opening the door wider and allowing Mary to step inside. Darry watched as Soda's brown eyes lit up immediately, Mary standing in front of himself looking almost helpless, and beside him on the couch, Ponyboy's expression looked anything but happy, not that he could blame him.

"Mary?" Soda said, standing up in one fluid motion. He made his way to her, taking her arms in his hands, his eyes searching her face. "What are you doin' here?" His brows pressed together. "What's wrong, darlin'? What is it?"

Darry nodded toward him. "Soda, why don't you and Mary . . . talk in private."

Soda glanced up, nodding once. "Yeah, sure, Darry." He pulled Mary down the hall to his room, and Darry and Ponyboy saw the bedroom light flicker on before it faded, the door closing with a soft _click_ , leaving the two brothers to stare at each other with surprised looks, both wondering what was going on.

Meanwhile, Soda led Mary to the bed, taking a seat beside her and reluctantly moving his arm from around her shoulders. He was shocked to see her, shocked that she was at his house, shocked that she was in his room, and shocked that she was this close to him again. Boy howdy, he surely had missed her, and he wanted more than anything to just hold her, or kiss her cheek, but he refrained, more interested in hearing what she had to say.

"I don't mean to just . . . show up like this," she began, wiping away a stray tear. Her eyes met his. "I had to sneak out of my house." Her lips curved a little, but then she blinked. "I know you're upset, and you have every right to be, but I couldn't help myself." Her bottom lip trembled a little, and she looked downright miserable just sitting there. "Soda, I was so scared to come here, to show my face to you after what I did, but—"

"But what?" he pressed, a spark of uncertainty flashing through his eyes. Oh, he was glad that Mary was there with him, but some part of him was upset that she'd taken off from him, had basically given up and left him standing there at Giberson's like she had. He sighed. "Look, Mary, I _was_ upset with you," he admitted, and then stood up, running a hand through his greased hair. "I still am, I reckon, but it ain't fair, you know? I love you, Mary, but I can't . . . I can't listen to you tell me that—"

She cut him off, though, moving to stand in front of him. "I don't care anymore, Soda. I don't care what Aunt Vera has to say. No more." She inhaled deeply, eyes closing for a moment before reopening, her gaze landing on his. "I love you, too, Soda, and I want . . . I want to be with you. I want you." Her voice was shaky but her expression was level. "I want _us_." Taking a step closer to him, she took his hand almost delicately, her fingers enclosing around his. "And right now, I want you to kiss me."

Soda could only stare at her in shock, stunned to hear the words coming out of her mouth. Feeling her dainty hand in his caused a shiver to move up his spine, and he moved forward, his feet almost feeling like they were cemented to the ground. He stared down at her, using his other hand to brush against her cheek as his thumb stroked the side of her jaw.

"You sure this is what you want?" he asked, closing the space between them. "To be with me? You don't care what your aunt—"

She shook her head, before leaning up to press her lips against his, her free hand reaching up and wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, fingers curling in his hair as he kissed her back good and long, both of them lost in their own heavenly bliss, if only for a few moments.

But this is what they both wanted, and no longer did Mary care about Aunt Vera and what she had to say about her life, no longer did she care about what anyone had to say about her Soda. And Soda had wanted nothing but this since the day he'd met this girl. He'd been holding his head up, hoping and praying that Mary would come back to him since the day she left him standing there at the garage, and he kept telling himself that this was all real, that Mary was really there, that he was really kissing her.

And for those few moments, he allowed himself to get lost in her, and she in him, all of their problems forgotten in the background along with everything and everyone else.

 _Hold your head up, oh_

 _Hold your head up, oh_

 _Hold your head high_

* * *

 **A tremendous _thank you_ for all of the feedback and support on this story! :3**


	22. Can't Trace Time

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. David Bowie owns "Changes."**

* * *

 _I watch the ripples change their size_

 _But never leave the stream  
_

 _Of warm impermanence  
_

 _And so the days float through my eyes_

 **October 9, 1966**

Dallas trudged along the dirt trail, his eyes squinted against the rising sun, his head pounding from how much he'd drank the night before. He was having one helluva hangover, but he didn't care, not even bothering to complain when he had to get up earlier that morning to muck horse shit. Artemis was coming a long way, but she still hadn't eased up to the use of a stall, so Buck agreed to let her stay in the pen until she was broke in enough to be more enclosed, and getting her calmed enough to brush and clean her was a lot of effort—not like it used to be, though.

With a deep sigh, Dallas made his way to Johnny's grave, his face twisted up into a sneer, nostrils flared. Glory, but it was quite chilly that morning, and his jean jacket was doing little to keep him warm, not that he'd bitch. He came to a stop, looking the kid's headstone over and scowling all the more. He thought about that night over a year ago now, remembering Ponyboy and Johnny running into that burning church to save all those blasted kids. Dammit. If only he'd fucking grabbed one of them, if only they had stayed at the Dairy Queen several moments longer, if only he hadn't directed them to that shithole to begin with. His fists balled up tightly inside his pockets, lips curling back as his anger began to fester even more than before, long brewing inside of his veins and waiting to unleash.

With a grunt, Dallas looked around for something to punch, something to kick, but there was nothing, and with a string of profanities spilling from his lips, he jerked around and rammed his boot clad foot into a very thick tree trunk, some of the bark falling off and landing around him. If anyone was there to witness it, they would probably think he was out of his mind, and hell, maybe he was, but he didn't care none, didn't fucking care about anything. He thought about Ponyboy for a moment, wondering if this is how the kid felt when he woke up from those damn nightmares he'd been having—was it? He didn't fucking know, and right then, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.

"Why'd ya do it, huh?" he asked, an expression of sheer anguish across his face as he looked back at Johnny's grave. "You little punk." And then his teeth grinded together. "It wasn't your fucking time, Johnny. Oh, dammit, Johnny . . . dammit."

There were so many emotions surging through his veins, but this was one he wasn't used to feeling, and he didn't know what it was or how to react to it. His hands were shaking with pure vexation, face contorting into a mixture of frustration, anger, and agony, and he considered on starting up a fight with someone, anyone, just to have a way to vent. Golly, but it had been a long ass time since he'd blown off steam in a good fight, and right then, that's exactly what he wanted, to beat the shit outta someone, to beat their head it . . . something. He was getting too antsy, too lost in his thoughts, and Dallas didn't like being in his own head, didn't like to think too much . . .

The teen didn't even realize that he was pacing back and forth until his lighter fell from his hand and landed beside him on the dirt, and he bent down quickly to retrieve it, lighting up a cigarette and slowly inhaling, letting the nicotine calm his nerves. Yeah, he needed a good fight alright. Maybe he'd go and find Shepard. He'd have a nice head start, too—Shepard probably wasn't even out of bed yet. It was barely six o'clock in the morning. But the last thing he needed was to be pissy when he picked Ella up for their date that night. Jesus Christ, but she was already a pain in the ass at the best of times, and he figured if he was . . . somewhat nice to the little broad, maybe she'd give it up. Low chances there, but still, he was hopeful.

Fuckin' Ella. The most he'd gotten from her were a few hot and heavy make-out sessions. Fighting and getting laid had always been outlets for him, and he hadn't been in a good fight since . . . since . . . hell, he couldn't remember, and Ella sure wasn't putting out for him. He took another drag of his cigarette and ran a hand through his tufts of hair, deciding to go and start shit with Shepard for kicks. A good fight right then sounded fan-fucking-tastic . . .

* * *

"Mary! _Mary!_ "

The girl came to an abrupt stop, jerking around to face her aunt. She knew what was about happen, she had expected it since she'd made her speech at mass that morning. Oh, glory, but Mary could see the fires of hell flaring in Aunt Vera's eyes, and she expected the smack across her face once the woman reached her, her hand instantly raising and backhanding the girl in one fluid motion. But Mary barely flinched, turning back to face her aunt with boiling anger of her own, brown eyes for once not reflecting fear, but a newfound courage, something that made her aunt take a second look at her. She had made the abrupt decision that morning to announce how blessed she was to have found love in a boy that she was sure God had sent to her, and when she expressed her emotions through her words, Aunt Vera nearly had a seizure in the front pew, listening to her niece talk about love and how God was so benevolent to grace mankind with such wonderment, her eyes landing on her aunt with fixation.

But Aunt Vera was still resentful and ready to strike again. "You have humiliated yourself," she barked, and shook her head. "And even worse, Mary, you have humiliated _me!_ "

"Good!" Mary shot back vengefully. "I don't care if I'm the laughing stock of this place. I don't care how embarrassed you are. I love him, Aunt Vera. I _love_ Soda Curtis, and he _loves_ me, and there is nothing you can do to stop us from being together." Her cheeks were turning a light pink from how upset she was, but Aunt Vera merely stared at her, unfazed by her attitude, which she, of course, deemed considerably unorthodox. "You may have custody of me, Aunt Vera, but you certainly do not dictate my life, and I'm through letting you tell me what to do."

The woman's expression was bitter, eyes narrowing into slits as she grabbed her niece's arm. "Be that as it may, Mary Charlotte DeVaney, but while you are still sixteen and live in my house—"

"I'll be seventeen in two months," Mary said, cutting her off sharply. "There is nothing that you can do. I will leave you . . . I'll—" She breathed in, before exhaling hardly. "Soda and I will marry, and you'll never see me again, Aunt Vera. Never."

"Is this what your mother would have wanted?" came the brisk and harsh response, and Mary felt an icy sensation creep up her spine. But Aunt Vera's poisonous words only continued, and Mary took a step backward, inching away from them. "She would frown on you, and your father would shame you from this family. Is this what you want?" Her smile was vindictive. "Go on, then, Mary. They'll both roll in their graves and turn their backs on you." And then she took another step forward. "If you leave, nothing will be entrusted to you. You will lose everything. _Everything_ , Mary." By that moment, she was in her face. "You are a foolish, foolish child." She shook her head, tsking. "You would throw your life away for a boy who is no good for you, that could never provide for you. You are so naive, Mary, too lost in your fairyland world to see and understand reality."

By then Mary's eyes were wide, an invisible knife driving deeper into her chest. She pictured Soda in her mind, thought about his dancing brown eyes, and one side of her mouth curved up ever so little, her own eyes bright. His eighteenth birthday was just the day before, and in two months, Mary would turn seventeen. She didn't know what they would do, or what would happen, but she could only concentrate on Soda, remembering how he'd told her that the gift she'd gotten him couldn't compare to her being with him, for that was the best one of all. But Aunt Vera's voice echoed around Soda's, and Mary was brought back to the present. She hadn't given up just yet, and even though her eyes were swelling up with tears, her breathing shallow, the next words that came out of her mouth were firm and level, and not once did she flinch.

"No, Aunt Vera," she said, chin raising. "I'm throwing _your_ life away to live my own."

* * *

". . . and that should do it," Evie said, applying one last coat of polish to Ella's pinky nail. She smiled at her work. "That's a nice color for you. I like it." She turned the girl's hand a little to study the mulberry coloring at a better angle. "Yup. That's real nice. I'm glad we picked that one."

Ella grinned, thanking Evie for helping her prep for her date later that night with Dallas. Evie was still a bit unhappy with her friend seeing Dallas—even worse, being in a relationship with him—but she couldn't deny that Ella had been more . . . happier, and it surprised her, considering how the towheaded hood usually treated people. Then again, he had always been rather decent to Evie, and the girl figured it was because she was Steve's girlfriend, so that must have been some sorta code—act decent toward the girls who mattered, or something stupid like that. Evie didn't know, but if Ella was happy, then she was glad. It had been a while since she'd seen her friend actually smiling, genuinely smiling, and if all it took was Dallas Winston (gross) being her boyfriend, then . . . well, so be it.

"So," Evie said, plopping down on her bed and filing her own nails, "what's the game plan?"

Ella shrugged. "Nothing special. I'm not even sure what we're doing, or where we're going." She made a face. "Dallas doesn't ever plan anything, not really."

The brunette merely nodded, making a sound like a light hum as she listened to Ella ramble on. She remembered when Sylvia dated Dallas, how sporadic their dates and shit used to go. She hadn't been that happy when they had gotten together, either, but what could she have done? Nothing. She watched the events play out from the sidelines along with Sandy, though, not surprised at how messed up the entire relationship had been. But then again, Dallas wasn't good in relationships, never one to make a full commitment, and Sylvia wasn't any better. They fucked around on each other, always tried getting even with one another, and neither one of them ever treated the other good. Ella was a little different, though, not that Dallas would treat her any differently than he had Sylvia. Evie wasn't too sure about that, though, because Dallas and Ella seemed to get along in the weirdest way possible.

Evie almost chuckled to herself at that particular thought alone. Ella and Dallas fought with each other, argued like cat and dog, and when Ella wasn't complaining about his irrational behavior, she was ogling over him, her eyes in a daze and far away. Evie shook her head. With Dallas, as far as she'd heard from Steve and Two-Bit, if he wasn't going off about her being a bitch, he was taking her out and tossing his arm around her shoulders, and then he would send her a crooked grin, eyes impish and daring, and Ella would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Yeah, Evie thought to herself, flicking her finger as she moved to file the next, Dallas and Ella were a . . . strange couple, to say the least. They liked each other one minute, the next they were at each others throats, and then they didn't like each other, and it was back to square one—all in the course of nearly two months.

"I think he's still pissed because of my dad and all," she said, feeling stupid. Her eyes met Evie's. "He's been trying to find him, but no one knows where he's been hiding, and well, I know it's stupid and all, but . . . I still want to talk to him, you know?"

Evie sympathized. She'd heard about the issue with Dwayne Mitchell already, and not just from Ella, but from Steve, and she really felt bad. She didn't know what she could do for Ella, and she felt almost helpless. Then again, what was there that she could possibly do? She knew that Ella wanted so badly to talk to her father, ask him things, ask him why he left, or why he didn't want her, but truthfully, Evie really didn't want Ella to go near Dwayne. Now, Evie was a bold girl, always had been, but admitting that to Ella was something she couldn't do. She knew the girl was aware of how dangerous her father was, but the only thing she was able to do in this situation was advise against her plans to go and search for him herself. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Glory, but Dallas had a right to be hacked off about that, and for once, Evie had to side with the hood over her friend. Surprise, surprise.

But Ella was already onto a different topic, and Evie shook her head at the thought, trying to ignore the mental image of her friend approaching a guy—her father or not—like Dwayne Mitchell.

". . . but I think I want something . . . different," Ella finished, staring at herself in the vanity mirror. "I don't know what, but I think I want a change."

The younger teen glanced up, eyeing her friend curiously. "A change?" she repeated. "Like what?"

And then the next words out of Ella's mouth nearly caused her to go into cardiac arrest. Ella turned to look at her, face completely, one hundred percent, serious, and Evie thought that she might just be joking, only she wasn't, and Evie was . . . stunned, to say the least.

"I want to cut my hair."

Evie's brown eyes were stark wide. "What?"

Ella merely shrugged, turning back to look at herself in the mirror, her fingers twirling around a lock of her long mane, and Evie really thought she was dreaming. Was this a joke? It wasn't even Mischief Night yet! But apparently, Ella wasn't kidding, because she repeated her statement, which sounded more firm than the first time she'd said it. Evie just couldn't believe it. Ella loved her long ass hair. Oh, sure, Evie had scolded her numerous times before in the past about it needing a good trimming up, or that she should straighten it out, or whatever, and Ella, though reluctant to ever remove a few measly inches from it, usually always complied with whatever Evie had told her in terms of advice on proper hair care. But hearing the girl say that she wanted to cut her hair was a surprise in itself, and though Evie was more than willing to oblige her request, she was still momentarily bewildered.

"Why?" she suddenly questioned, sounding unsure. At Ella's blank stare, she continued. "I mean, you never want to do anything to your hair other than straighten it."

The older girl's lips pursed, a distant look in her eyes. "I don't know. I guess I'm just ready for a change, is all." She pulled her hair over her shoulder, and Evie's brows furrowed as she stared at the length of it, which stopped just below her bottom. Lordy, it had grown out since the last time she'd cut it, and that was back in . . . June? July? She couldn't remember. But Ella kept speaking, using her hand to indent where she wanted it cut to, which was just around her waist. "I guess I want it about . . . _here_."

Hell, Evie thought, but that would be . . . over a foot of hair to cut. She placed her filer on the mattress, moving to study the length of Ella's hair versus where she wanted it, and then moved to her and Beth's shared desk to grab a ruler. Placing it at Ella's back, she cocked an eyebrow at the length, using her fingers to add the extra digits of how much she would be taking off if Ella was serious.

"That's fifteen inches," she confirmed, tossing the ruler aside. "You sure you want me to cut it?"

Ella was silent for a moment, before she nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, alright," Evie replied. "Sit back down." As Ella sat down, Evie made her way over to her bed to grab her new, unopened bottle of pink wine, popping it open and handing it off to Ella, who only gave her a baffled look. "You're probably going to want this after you see the finished result," she said, grinning widely. "I'm sure it's gonna be a shock."

The brown-haired girl chuckled, tilting her head back to take a swig. "I'll drink to that."

Evie cat-grinned, reaching for her brush as she got to work on Ella's hair. Oh, glory, she thought, lips folding together as she pulled the girl's hair into a ponytail, this was surely gonna be something. With one last look at Ella in the mirror, she gave her a small and reassuring smile before grabbing for the scissors and beginning to cut her long and crazy locks, the brown strands falling to the floor and landing around both of their feet.

* * *

"You okay, kiddo?"

Ponyboy glanced up at his oldest brother, giving him a small nod. "Yeah, I think so." He turned back toward Johnny's headstone, taking a deep breath in before exhaling slowly. He felt Darry's arm tighten around his shoulders a little, and he relaxed. "Thanks for bringing me, Darry."

"Of course, little brother," came the response, and Darry gave him a small smile. He had grown overly worried when Ponyboy had told him about the reoccurring nightmares a few days back. He'd asked to speak to him privately, without Soda there, and that had surprised Darry more than anything. Soda and Ponyboy had always been close, real tight, so when his youngest brother had come to him, looking for advice and succor, Darry had been . . . shocked. Then again, he and Ponyboy had been getting along real well, just like old times, and truthfully, Darry couldn't have been happier. But when he learned of the nightmares . . . glory, his first instinct was to take him to the doctor, but Ponyboy had insisted that he don't do that, that he just wanted to hear what Darry had to say, so Darry had reluctantly agreed, coming up with the idea that Ponyboy needed to go back to the cemetery, clear his mind and all. "You feeling alright?" he asked curiously.

"I'm good," he answered, giving him a look of assurance. "I think you were right, Darry. I just needed to clear my head."

He nodded. "That's good to hear. I'm glad."

Ponyboy instantly relaxed, for the first time in weeks feeling much better. He wasn't sure why Johnny's death had been haunting his mind during the nights, but Darry simply said that he thought too much, that he was too invested in his mind, thinking that he ought to go back and visit Johnny's grave so he could clear his head and come to terms with his grief for good, which was exactly what he'd done. He had thought that he was over everything a year ago, but now he was learning to finally let go, and he briefly wondered if Dally had done so. He wondered if the older teen had read his book yet, or how far he was, remembering that he'd mentioned that he was getting through it. Ponyboy sighed, Johnny's face entering his mind once more, his eyes no longer wide with fear, but instead, happy and carefree, his face clear of the scar and the bruises that littered his skin, a content look replacing the once loneliness that veiled his exterior.

Glancing up at Darry, he nodded. "You think Johnny's at peace?"

The older boy blinked, and he patted his brother's shoulder lightly. "Yeah, Ponyboy, I do. I think he's earned his wings." He nodded, sure-like. "Don't worry, kiddo. He's still around . . . with Mom and Dad, but I think he's—"

"Watching over Dallas."

Darry's brows knitted together for a second as he considered the blond-headed teen. "Something like that," he responded, and then ruffled Ponyboy's hair. "C'mon, kiddo. Let's get back home. Soda should be back soon, and besides, I'm just about starvin'."

Ponyboy grinned as they turned to leave. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

Ella smiled as Dallas glanced at her from across the bar, his eyes holding a mischievous glint in them as he turned back to face the pool table, focus on the last solid as he aimed the cue and whacked the ball straight into the pocket down the end. The man he was playing against shook his hand before placing several folded bills down on the table, Dallas rolling them into his pocket. He handed the cue off to some lone cowboy who had waltzed up and offered to play a round, reached for his half finished beer, and made his way back to where Ella was seated on the stool.

"How much did you win?" she asked as he leaned against the counter, draping his free arm around her shoulder.

He smirked. "Forty bucks, dollface, how's that grab ya?"

She cocked an eyebrow at his smug expression. "Forty bucks you say, huh?" She turned on the stool, finishing off the last of her own drink. "And what are you going to do with that forty bucks?"

Dallas looked thoughtful, staring at Ella's face. Damn, he sure preferred this side of her . . . when she was loosened up and feeling no pain. She was almost easier to get along with, but it didn't matter, Ella was still . . . Dopey Ella, either way you looked at it. He eyed her outfit, enjoying the view of her legs in the dress she wore, her overly pale skin looking almost illuminated contrasted with the darkness of the dress and her shoes. Her hair was up and wrapped around the top of her head loosely, and Dallas decided that he liked it down better, but . . . whatever. He didn't care. In fact, he wanted to blow that joint and find something else to do.

He moved closer to her, placing his arms on either side of her shoulders. "Wanna bite to eat?"

She smiled. "Sure."

They left the downtown bar a few minutes later, Ella placing her hands inside her Fall jacket as Dallas lit up a cigarette, her body moving closer to his as he slung an arm around her shoulders. Dallas wasn't usually calm like this, or relaxed. Most of the time, he was always on edge, eyes shifty and on guard, always aware of his surroundings, and even if he was being protective of Ella, it came out harshly and roughly, and sometimes, Ella didn't know how to respond to his impulsive behavior. But that was the thing about Dallas, she realized, and she'd known it for quite some time now. He was impulsive, quick to anger, hot-headed, and dangerous—and if he wanted something, he got it. But he was . . . good to her on occasion, and it was nights like this particular one that she enjoyed—when they weren't arguing or being hacked off about something stupid, but rather, simply enjoying each others company.

Since Buck had taken the T-Bird back, he'd given Dallas his truck, going on that he didn't want it, that he got better gas mileage with the car, blah-fucking-blah, but at least Dallas had a vehicle of his own and didn't have to share the fucking T-Bird with Buck. The truck had stunk like him, though, so Dally had cleaned the hell out of it, getting rid of any reminisce left over by Buck before picking Ella up that evening, making a face at the thought of her getting a whiff of that wicked stench. Jesus Christ. He flipped the radio on, shoving those thoughts aside as he began shuffling through the stations when Ella suddenly jumped forward in the seat, whacking his hand away from the dial, an excited look plastering her face.

"Wait, leave this on," she said, smiling in the dark. "I like this song." The Beatles' "Yellow Submarine" drifted through the speakers, and Dallas practically shoved Ella out onto the road, not caring what the hell happened to her ass. But then she began to fucking sing, and the blond just about blew a damn gasket. "We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine . . ."

Dallas shook his head, reaching over to switch the station. "Fuck that," he jeered, leaning back as The Rascals' "Good Lovin'" came on, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "I hate the goddamn Beatles."

Ella shot him a look, brows lacing together as she switched the station back. "We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yell—" She was cut off as Dallas turned The Rascals back on, turning the radio up and blaring her out. The side of her mouth twitched, and with a devious expression, she began belting out the lyrics to "Yellow Submarine" as loud as she could, crossing her arms firmly around her middle, not caring how pissed off Dallas became. ". . . cut the cable, drop the cable, aye, Sir, aye, captain, captain . . ."

The blond's lips folded together as he glared at Dopey beside him in the passenger seat, and without a warning, he slammed the brakes, causing the both of them to jolt forward, Ella's singing coming to an abrupt stop as a shrill scream flew from her mouth, eyes going stark wide before she turned to face him with a fearful expression. What she didn't expect was for his hand to dart out and cover her mouth, his own eyes impish as he stared at her.

"You gonna shut the hell up?" he asked, keeping his eyes on hers.

But Ella merely glared back, her own hand wrapping around his wrist as she pushed his hand away from her face, eyes narrowing all the more. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol in her system making her act this way or what, but one thing she was certain about was that getting a rise out of Dallas was positively entertaining. It had always been him taking jabs at her, or messing with her, or just saying something to hurt her, and now being the one to get under his skin was somewhat comical, and it was all because he couldn't stand the Beatles. Speaking of the Beatles, the radio was still blaring, and Ella only grinned when "Good Lovin'" came to an end, and the next song that came on was "Eleanor Rigby."

Her smile only stretched as the song blared through the car, as Dallas hadn't turned the radio down, and the look that overcame his face was priceless. Ella laughed, tossing her head back against the seat as Dallas looked like he wanted to pulverize someone . . . and he probably did. But Ella couldn't help it, and she continued to laugh, not caring how pissed off Dally got, or what he did. The situation to her was just too damn funny, and for once, she had gotten one good in on her boyfriend.

Turning the radio down, Dallas shot her a look, throwing the gear shift back in drive. "You're a real pain in the ass, broad," he bit out, shaking his head. But she was still chuckling, biting her lip to keep from doing so but failing miserably. "Alright, giggles, shut the fuck up, would ya?"

And that's how they drove all the way to the diner, Ella's laughter quieting down, and Dallas doing his best to ignore the fucking Beatles playing lowly in the background. He was glad when the stupid song came to a finish, conveniently right as he pulled into the parking lot, the lights from inside the diner bright and more welcoming than the inside of the truck. Dallas scampered out, not bothering to wait for Ella as she climbed out after him, following behind him as he walked up to the door, only stopping to give him a look of surprise when he allowed her in first, but he didn't bother to spare her a glance.

Once inside, they made their way toward the back and sat down in one of the booths, ordering two chocolate milkshakes. They were silent for a few minutes before Ella decided to strike up another conversation, one she had been meaning to talk about for a few days. But whenever she was with Dallas, she couldn't ever bring herself to talk about her father, afraid that he would jump all over her and get in her face about being stupid or whatever else he had to say regarding Dwayne Mitchell that was negative. Ella knew that he wasn't a good person, and she figured that she was awfully stupid for wanting anything to do with him, even if it was as ridiculous as wanting to talk to him as his daughter, the one he'd left behind when she was an infant.

She hesitated before speaking, her voice coming out quietly. "Have you found Dwayne?"

Dallas shot her a look. "Why do you care?"

A shrug. "I think I have a right to know, Dallas. He is still my fa—"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied, blowing her off. "Listen, girl, it'd be better if you didn't so much as stick your nose into this shit, dig?" At her look of desperation, he sighed, running a hand over his face. "I mean it, Ella. It ain't something you need to get involved in. Just forget it." And when she didn't respond, chin lowering a little, his face twisted into a scowl, his hand coming down hardly on the table top. "You think my old man gives a shit about me? He don't care about nothin', and guess what, sweets? It's a two-way street, but that don't bother me, so quit thinkin' about your old man and what's gonna happen to him. You're better off without him, so don't ask anymore questions."

The waitress had walked over by then, placing their milkshakes on the table and eyeing them both with a concerned expression, eyes landing on Ella's almost frozen frame, the forming tears in her eyes hardly mistakable. And then her gaze shifted to Dallas, whose glacier orbs met hers, lips pursing a little as he looked her over, not once flinching away from her scrutinizing stare. Dallas realized how the scene must have looked, but he was used to people in general glaring down at him like he nothing more than garbage littering the streets, a scavenger of sorts, no good . . . worthless, a low life, piece of shit, not worth anything . . . His features remained fixed as his own father's voice taunted his thoughts in that split second, but inside he was ready to explode.

"Is everything okay?"

He snapped back to reality, looking back at the waitress. "Everything's just peachy." He nudged Ella's chocolate drink closer to her. "We don't need nothin' else."

Ella watched the woman walk away, but not before giving her one last look. She wondered if this is how other people viewed her and Dallas, like she was some victim in the relationship, as if he was abusing her or something, and she wondered if he noticed that, too, if he thought about it, or if he even cared how people viewed him, or thought of him . . . or them.

"You gonna drink that or what?"

She glanced at him across the table, watching as he used the back of his hand to wipe away the excess whipped cream on his upper lip, and she couldn't help the small smile that appeared across her own mouth. Of course Dallas hadn't cared to use the straw, instead choosing to dive right into his drink, not giving two shits what anyone else thought. His foot brushed hers under the table, and when she looked at him again, he was smirking, his leg moving to rest against her own. She cracked a grin, eyes landing on her untouched milkshake, and ignoring the straw, she lifted the cold glass to her lips and went in for the kill, not caring about the contents practically getting all over her upper lip and nose.

The conversation about her father was lost in the background as Ella continued to do what she'd set out to do that night, which was to have a good time, to forget about everything else for a while. Even when Dallas drove her home after they'd left the diner, Ella hadn't bothered to bring the subject up again, deciding to just leave it alone for the time being. She felt a little sad when they pulled up in front of her house, the inside dark other than the one dim light that she'd left on in the living room earlier.

"I had fun tonight," she said, turning to face Dallas in the seat.

He nodded a little. "Yeah." His eyes drifted passed hers for a second. "You'd better get inside, sweets. It's late and shit, and you—"

"I know," she muttered, wishing she didn't have to get up at four thirty in the morning just to get out the door an hour later and be at work by six. "I hate twelve hour shifts."

Dallas made a sound like a snort, and shook his head. But he didn't have a full chance to respond right away, because Ella shimmied across the seat, her body moving across his lap as she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips soft and warm, her breath tasting like chocolate. The blond was more than stunned, but he definitely wasn't complaining, and he kissed her back good and hard, hands going to her exposed legs and running them up and down her bare skin. On the other hand, Ella wasn't quite sure what had come over her, but she just wanted to forget about her argument with Dallas, forget about her fugitive father, forget about her sickly mother and her lousy job, forget about . . . everything and finish the night off better than what it had started out with. More than anything, she really just wanted to kiss her boyfriend and act like everything was all honky-dory for a few minutes, and that's what she did, her thoughts focused on Dallas as his tongue teased her own, his mouth like chocolate and cigarettes . . . and for those seconds, she felt content, not stopping him as he continued to kiss her.

It was when his mouth pressed against the center of her neck that she made a sound, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her eyes went wide, a blush forming across her cheeks. Dallas pulled back, eyes meeting hers, a smug look on his face as her euphoric state of mind practically disappeared.

"What?" she asked in a breathy voice, sounding as flustered as she looked.

And then he grinned. "Nice moan, sweets." His expression was dangerously playful, and Ella felt her face heating up instantaneously. "I'll bet you get louder than that."

"Like you'll ever find out," she smarted, and then smiled. "By the way, Evie cut my hair off earlier today, and I'm surprised you didn't have a remark to make about it."

Dallas rolled his eyes. "How could I when it's thrown up on your head, stupid?" When she didn't reply, he made a face. "Well, you gonna take it down or what?" And then her mouth twitched as she reached up and pulled her hair out of its bun, letting her bushy locks spill down to her waist, still lengthy, but nothing compared to what it had been. But Dallas merely cocked an eyebrow. "Holy shit," he muttered, studying it in the darkness. "What'd Evie use on this thing? A goddamn bushwhacker?"

Ella gave him a light shove. "Do you like it?"

"Sure," he answered, aloof and uncaring. "Look's great."

"Alright, alright," she responded, moving off of him to climb out of the truck. "I'll see you later."

He laughed as she tripped getting out, nearly losing her footing but ultimately saving herself on the door. She gave him bitter glare as she flipped him off, turning on her heel and heading up to her front door, and fumbling with her keys like a dumbass before finally getting inside. And he waited, mentally counting to twelve before seeing her bedroom light flicker on, and only then did he pull away.

 _Time may change me  
_

 _But I can't trace time  
_

 _I said that time may change me  
_

 _But I can't trace time_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, and for all of the positive feedback. It's very much appreciated! :3**


	23. Get It Together

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Thunderclap Newman owns "Something in the Air."**

* * *

 _Call out the instigators  
_

 _Because there's something in the air_

 **October 14, 1966**

Ella yawned as she flipped a pancake in the skillet, her eyes still bleary with sleep. She was so tired, and hanging out with Evie and Mary all night hadn't helped matters that much. But she was so sick of being stuck at work without ever seeing anyone, including Dallas, so she decided to take the night and have some needed fun with two of her friends. Besides, Dally was stuck working for Buck three nights a week for a few hours, and Ella never fancied the idea of hanging out in a bar all night just to wait for her boyfriend's shift to end. Currently, she was running on four hours of sleep since she'd gotten in at ten and hadn't been able to fall asleep until well after midnight—good Lord.

Frances entered the kitchen, eyeing her daughter's sluggish frame with a raised eyebrow. "You look exhausted," she stated, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"I feel exhausted," came the dragging response, and Ella tossed the pancake onto a plate, pouring more of the batter into the pan. "I'm glad it's Friday."

Sitting down at the table, Ella's mother glanced over at her. "Are you going out tonight . . . with him?"

The girl frowned a little, shaking her head. It annoyed her that her mother couldn't refer to Dallas by his name, always opting for calling him other things, like "him", "the town hoodlum", or "that criminal", and truthfully, even though Ella hadn't said anything, it was nagging at her. But she didn't have any plans of going out with Dallas that night, instead choosing to tell him that she was staying in, which wasn't exactly true. She couldn't tell anyone that she had plans to see Gentry Knox to find out where her father was and learn what he had done that was so horrible that even Dallas wanted her to stay away from him. She figured it was something really bad, something she didn't want to know, but part of it was eating at her, and she couldn't help but to be curious.

"Ella?"

The girl shifted, tossing another finished pancake onto the plate. "Um, I actually have plans with Evie tonight, Mom."

"Oh." Her look of disapproval suddenly shattered, a relieved expression replacing it. "How is Evie?"

Ella shrugged. "She's fine."

"And what about your other friends?" came the next question. Her mother smiled. "I haven't seen Mary or Bridget around lately."

 _Because Bridget's in school five days a week, Mary is under surveillance even though her aunt has gotten off her case about dating Soda, and I'm a work horse,_ was what Ella really wanted to respond with, but ultimately decided not to. She didn't like being snippy with her mother, and more than that, she didn't like arguing with her, either. Despite her mother's increasing health, Ella was still more than worried, no matter how optimistic she remained about the treatment. Frances had been doing much better, acting like her old self and being on top of things like she used to be. Just seeing her mom smiling and happy again was a prodigious relief to Ella, and she didn't want to jeopardize that or put herself or anything between it.

"They've been busy," she answered, turning the burner off. "But they're both doing well." She smiled a little, splattering butter across the pancakes. "Actually, Evie and I were able to get Mary out of her house last night for a while, which was fun. We went bowling."

Frances's brow quirked. "Well, that's nice, El. I'm happy to hear it."

What she really meant was that she was glad that Ella wasn't hanging around Dallas, and Ella picked that up from the tone of her voice. Ella had come to understand her mother's worry, though, knowing that she wasn't resentful about her relationship with Dallas Winston—she was worried, and that worry had manifested into anger, but not resent, which was what Ella had mistaken her mother's attitude as several weeks back. Of course, the news had come as innate shock, but now Ella understood, just the same as she understood Mary's aunt and their situation. Big difference, sure, but the underlying tone was basically the same, even though Mary's aunt was a raving lunatic, according to Evie.

Ella and her mother sat down at the table to eat breakfast, a silence enveloping them for a moment or two while they ate. Even though the food smelled delicious, Ella suddenly wasn't feeling all that hungry, and she assumed it was because she was nervous—nervous about her plans for later that day, which nobody but her knew about. She poked around her plate, eyes fixated on the melted butter slowly sliding down the edge of the pancakes, her stomach swarming with butterflies. Would she really go through with it?

"So," Frances began, sipping her coffee, "how are things?" She glanced at her daughter skeptically, taking in her nervous countenance. "Has . . . he been treating you okay?"

Ella glanced up. "Dallas treats me just fine, Mom." She leaned back into the chair, a firm look on her face, even though her shoulders drooped. "I just wish that . . . you could accept him, or at least meet him." She paused, bottom lip folding back between her teeth, gaze on the floor. "I really like him."

But her mother merely sighed, rolling her eyes. "I know you really like him, Ella, but I'm sorry. I will not accept him in this house, and I certainly will not offer my blessing on your relationship, either." Her eyes met Ella's. "I'm sorry, El, but I won't change my mind."

"Mom—"

Frances held her hand up, though. "Ella, I won't hear of it. You know how I feel about Dallas Winston, and to be honest, I think you could do much better." She shook her head. "A boy like that will only bring you down, Ella. He's not good for you, and I wish you could understand where I'm coming from, sweetheart." The two of them stared at each other for a moment, before Frances continued. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Ella. I just want you to see reason."

"He's been trying to . . . better himself, somewhat," she replied, slumping down even lower. "He does treat me good, for the most part."

Frances rolled her eyes. "Oh, good Lord, Ella." She rubbed her hands over her face, already annoyed with this conversation. Why couldn't Ella just understand? She had been young once, too, had made plenty of mistakes of her own, and she really just wanted the best for her daughter—her only child. She had been there, too, once upon a time. "Do you really think that will last?" Her eyes were burning into her daughter's. "That boy . . . he isn't a good person, Ella. He's no good for you. I understand that you're infatuated, I get it, I've been there, but trust me, Ella . . . that _hoodlum_ doesn't care about you like you think he does, like you deserve, and don't get me started on his way of living, or what he's done." She folded her arms over her chest, glowering. "Maybe you should have read the papers a year ago and before. Or maybe you should listen to the talk around town . . . you'll learn quite a bit about people, especially those like Dallas Winston." Her glare was biting. "You won't change my mind or convince me otherwise, Ella."

The teen bit her lip, glaring down at her pancakes hardly. Her emotions were eating away at her, and she wished more than anything that she hadn't opened her mouth, hadn't responded. It was clearly evident how displeased her mother was about her and Dallas—painstakingly so—and no matter how much she _did_ understand her mother's worry, she could only ignore it. Perhaps it was the need to feel something other than . . . nothing. She was used to school and work, work and school, a never-ending cycle that she existed by, and then Dallas had entered her life, giving her the key to the one part of herself that she had always been afraid to unlock and set free. He made her feel, made her feel wanted, and in a way appreciated, but he was as quick to cut her down as he was to raise her up, though he was never anything but brutally honest with her, even if it hurt. But with him she felt almost free, like she could do practically anything, and that feeling alone was nearly consuming.

Glory, she wondered what her mother would do if she found out that Dallas had been in the house over a dozen times, sneaking in through her bedroom window and spending the nights, or just stopping by to be a nuisance, or just to make out with her, or whatever else. Ella was sure she didn't actually want to find out, no thank you. But that didn't matter. None of it did.

"Well," she said quietly, "Evie and I are going out tonight, so I won't be home after work."

* * *

Dallas wandered up to the DX, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, a blank stare on his face. Soda was sitting on the bench next to the garage, a large grin plastered across his lips as he stared at nothing in particular. Dally cocked an eyebrow, fishing around his breast pocket for his cigarettes, an impish look taking over his features. Oh, he'd heard about Soda and his girl alright, heard enough about the two of them that he could vomit. Jesus Christ, but he and Steve were the only guys in their gang with girls of their own kind . . . well, sort of. Evie was a greaser girl through and through, and Ella wasn't— Shit, he wasn't sure if Dopey was classified as anything, except a dope. But Soda and Two-Bit were both dating upper class girls, _real_ upper class girls. He wouldn't put it passed ol' Darrel or even Ponyboy to follow that route, either. Then again, Darrel had dated plenty of broads, but he had always favored the Soc-y or middle class chicks better.

"Hey, loverboy," he greeted, lighting up his cancer stick and leaning beside the younger teen on the exterior of the garage. "What's got you so dreamy?"

Soda quickly shook off whatever trance he was in, his gaze coming back into focus, and he looked up to see Dally standing next to him, blue eyes impish and teasing as he grinned down at him. Golly, but he wouldn't tell him he'd been sitting there aimlessly thinking about Mary. No way. Nope. Dally would probably think he was a sissy or something, and while Soda didn't give a hoot what anybody thought of him, the idea of admitting that he was daydreaming about his girlfriend just wasn't something he really wanted to let out into the open. But Mary . . . Glory, they'd been seeing each other nearly every night, and even though Aunt Vera had let up on her, Mary still had to abide by her aunt's curfew, and Soda could respect that—he always had Mary home on time. But ever since Mary's aunt had become more lenient with her, resulting in the two of them becoming practically inseparable, Soda couldn't contain his good and pleasant moods anymore than he could help the need to breathe.

"Nothin'," he answered, raising his chin as he turned to fully face Dallas. "Say, what are you up to?"

Dallas smirked. "Same as you, nothin'." And then he chuckled dryly. "Yeah, I'll bet something real special wasn't on your mind just a minute ago. Or should I say _someone_ special . . ."

The golden-haired teen rolled his eyes. "Oh, shove off, Dally. I'm plenty happy thinking about my girl whenever or wherever."

"Sure, sure," was the drawled out response. "I'll bet you are."

At that moment, Steve rounded the corner, coming to a stop on Dally's left as he lit up a cigarette, hand shaking the match to distinguish it. He took a drag, inhaling deeply as he shook his buddy's hand, his eyes shifting back toward Soda, who stood up, hands placed in his pockets. The weather had cooled off quite a bit, and truthfully, Steve was glad for it. No longer was he suffocating to death inside the garage during the days when it was so hot out he could hardly catch his breath, no longer was he dripping sweat everywhere and stinking like it. Steve had always been a fan of the colder weather, and so was Evie, surprisingly. He'd assumed she was more of a Summer-y girl, but Evie always continued to surprise him. Speaking of Evie . . .

He spoke. "Ella or Mary say anything to you about some date or something?"

"What?"

Steve shrugged at Soda's bewildered look. "Evie's been goin' on about the four of us, meaning us three and Two-Bit, goin' on a big date together."

Dallas snorted. "No, no, no. Tell her to lose that idea."

But Soda appeared interested, not shockingly so. "Well, we used to double or triple date."

"Not quadrupedal, 'less we was all meeting up or some shit."

Soda frowned. "Well"—He rubbed the back of his neck—"I don't know if Mary would go for it. She might, but . . . y'all know how she is."

Steve shot him a look. "Yeah, right."

"Whatever," Dallas added flatly. He'd never been one to double or triple date before, mostly because he liked having whatever girl to himself for the night, hoping to get somewhere, but he'd done it. Two-Bit wasn't one for the idea, either, but he was more of an enthusiast than Dallas. But he wanted Ella to himself, and Dally didn't enjoy the idea of Mary's or Bridget's company all that much. He was still sour about the entire disaster with George Clayton and Craig Bryant, and he would never be a fan of the Socs. Even if Ella wasn't their kind, she still wasn't a fucking Soc . . . even if she dug the Beatles. Dally shook his head at the thought, removing it from his mind. "You two can do what you want. I'm sure Two-Bit and Buzzing Bee Stevens will light up the show for you's."

Chuckling, Steve flicked his cigarette away. "I'm sure they would."

* * *

Two-Bit was drumming his fingers against his literature book, a bored look on his face. It almost made him feel impossibly dumb—the fact that he was being tutored by a kid who was four years younger than him. Two-Bit never did well academically, but he figured that was because he never really bothered to care or make the effort to try. Ponyboy was smart, though. Real smart. He'd skipped a grade because of those brains of his, was in classes with all those smart kids. Not like Two-Bit. Or Dallas. Or Sodapop. Nope. Darry, Steve, and Ponyboy were the brightest of the bunch. Steve was smart and real analytical, Ponyboy was brainy and deep, and Darry was intellectual and factual. Dallas was street savvy and suave, Sodapop was understanding and supportive, and Two-Bit? What was he? He'd been called a dumb thug plenty of times, been called everything negative under the sun, and sometimes, he sure felt that way. But he kept himself busy by cracking jokes and laughing at everything there was that he could find some humor in.

The joker? Yeah, that sounded about right for him.

But sometimes, Ponyboy made him feel rather smart. He didn't talk down to him, or look at him like he was stupid when he got answers wrong, he didn't put him down when he learned that his English class was reading a book Ponyboy had read when he was ten years old, and hell . . . the kid never acted like he was annoyed or anything, not even when Two-Bit himself did so. Two-Bit would never say it out loud, but he was grateful for a buddy like Ponyboy, runt of their makeshift gang or not.

While Ponyboy went over what questions he wanted Two-Bit to answer to practice for his upcoming English quiz, the older teen could only stare at him with wonderment. He realized then just how much Ponyboy had grown, how mature he was starting to become, and for some unknown reason, he felt a little sympathetic. It was like yesterday, Ponyboy would have his head stuck in a book, could hardly speak a word without feeling somewhat judged, and now? Now he was level and sure of himself. There was a determination in his eyes that hadn't been there a year ago, and Two-Bit wondered how in the world he could have missed it forming. He realized then how much the kid was turning out to be just like Darry, but with more of their mother's traits. Darry had the stern form of their father, and Soda was a direct combination of both.

"Alright," Ponyboy said, placing the book on the table, his finger sliding down the page as he scanned the questions. "Try these three right here, and then . . . the comprehension essay at the end."

Two-Bit's brows furrowed. "Comprehension essay?"

A nod. "Yeah, for practice, Two-Bit. Mrs. Pollock always adds an essay at the end of her quizzes." He shrugged, leaning back in the chair. "Besides, she counts them for extra credit, too."

The older teen set to work, staring down at the questions with a blank look. In a way, he was glad that he and Ponyboy had the same English teacher, albeit for different grades. Still, they were only a year apart now, and Mrs. Pollock taught pretty much the same thing for each grade, although different book assignments were given, and other readings weren't the same, but overall, each of her classes were pretty much on the same page, which made it a lot easier for Two-Bit and Ponyboy to work through the English part of tutoring.

Ponyboy was awfully proud of Two-Bit for getting this far. He was positive that, with a good boost of effort, Two-Bit would be able to graduate that school year. Already, he had improved himself from the year prior, and so far, he had gotten off to a good start. Heck, his own mother was shocked that he was a senior, that he had managed to pass his junior year after all—despite failing twice. But here he was, almost two months into the school year, nothing below a C in any of his classes. Ponyboy smiled, reaching for his own English work while he waited for Two-Bit to finish his own.

* * *

Ella had always been rather nervous, but not tonight. Tonight, she was more determined than she had ever been in her entire life, and she figured that it had something to do with everyone else telling her what to do. Usually, Ella never had any problem with following the rules, or doing what she was asked, but ever since Dallas Winston had entered her life, she had become somewhat rebellious. That wasn't to say that Ella still wasn't reserved and introverted, because she was, but on this particular night, she was anything but her usual self. Hell, she figured that both her mother and Dallas would probably murder her if they found out what she was up to, but she didn't care, and with an expression of confidence, the feeling itself radiating off of her, Ella climbed out of her car and made her way up to the Slash J, where she had planned to find Gentry Knox, the man who her father once associated himself with.

She knocked on the door, lips turning downward as she eyed the place. It was filthy, the outside littered with empty bottles and other assorted garbage, the exterior of the building looking in desperate need of repair. She made a face, nose scrunching as she considered that this was the same guy that Buck Merril got Dallas to work for, the same guy who helped Buck bootleg horses and other stuff, the same guy who had a hand in fixing races. Ella's frown only deepened as she shook her head at those thoughts, hand reaching up to knock on the door again. That time, she used her fist to give a few good hits, ready to just barge in there herself and demand to know where her father was. But that idea was quickly forgotten as Gentry Knox opened the door a moment later, his eyes narrowing down at the sight of her, face stony but collected.

"What do you want, kid?" he asked, stepping forward to block her view of the inside.

Ella immediately stiffened, but she remained firm otherwise. "I'm looking for Dwayne Mitchell," she replied, daring to stare into the eyes of the older man. "Is he here?"

"No, he ain't," Gentry said, baring his teeth. "And you best git the hell outta here, too. I know who the hell you are, girl, and if you so much as think—"

"I don't believe you," she fired back, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "I know you've been hiding him, and I want to see him, Mr. Knox." Her breathing was getting harder, and folded beneath each arm, her fingers were curling into the material of her blouse. "You have history together, I know that."

The cowboy was growing impatient, but he knew that girl standing on that porch in front of him was the daughter of one of the most dangerous men he knew. They shared the same piercing look, but the girl's was less hardened and cruel. But he could see Dwayne in her clear as day, could see the resemblance in those dark blue eyes, and Jesus Christ but the bite in her tone was as clipped as Dwayne's. He'd known Ella Mitchell was Dwayne's kid the moment he laid eyes on her, and what a comic for the funny pages it was that she was dating one of Tulsa's notorious hoodlums and one of his most favorable employees—Dallas Winston. Yeah, a fucking joke was what that was.

He spit the toothpick off his lip, running his tongue over his teeth as he watched it land beside Ella on the porch, face twisting into a sneer. "You don't know shit, sweetheart, so why don't you git on outta here like I told you the first time." His voice had dropped an octave or two as he glared at her from the doorway. "Tell Winston to stay the fuck outta this, too. Dwayne ain't here, and I'd suggest not to go sniffing around in other people's business . . . or yer gon' end up hurt . . . or worse."

Ella tensed, but she didn't cower back. She was just too upset and too angry to do so, and without a second thought, she took a step forward, chest tightening in fear, face blank of any emotion that she was feeling internally. She knew that she was being stupid, possibly suicidal, but she couldn't help it. Ever since she had seen the man who was her father, that had abandoned her and her mother all those years ago, she had been so curious. All she had gathered was that Dwayne was a dangerous guy, that he was on the run, a fugitive, a con . . . She wanted answers, she wanted to know why. Why he had done the things he had, why he had left . . . why he had refused to accept that she was his daughter . . .

"I need to see him," she countered, her hands jerking out in a fruitless effort to shove the man back. He had hardly moved, though, and what little he had was only because he wasn't expecting it. Ella was a petite twig, and even Gentry looked stunned at her reaction—but only for a moment. What the girl didn't expect was for him to grab her arm and jerk her backward harshly. "Let go!" she all but wailed, fingers gripping his own in an attempt to get free.

Gentry was an inch or two from her face, then. "You listen here, you little bitch." His own breathing was rugged, the stench of tobacco wafting from his breath. "Yer daddy ain't here, so either I—"

"Oh, Gentry," a voice called from the entrance, and both Ella and Mr. Knox jerked back around to see Dwayne himself standing there, casually smoking a cigar with a cocked eyebrow. "Let the girl go, huh? She ain't gon' do nothin'"—His hand moved to open his denim jacket a little more, revealing a hand gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans as his eyes met his daughter's—"are ya, Ella?"

The teen's eyes were stark wide as she stared at the gun. "No," she answered after a moment, Gentry's death like grip no longer wrapped around her arm. "I just . . . wanted to talk to you."

Dwayne nodded toward Gentry. "Bring her in here." The side of his mouth curved. "We'll talk."

For a second, Gentry almost looked apologetic, and the look in his beady eyes was one of immense concern. But Ella followed her father inside, Gentry following in after her, the door closing quietly behind the three of them. Realistically, Gentry didn't want to let the girl into that house, didn't want her to see her old man for what he really was, and he certainly didn't want the blood of an eighteen year old on his hands, either. Dwayne Mitchell wasn't above anything, and truthfully, Gentry Knox had known for a long time that he'd run into his former friend again—him and Cody.

* * *

Dallas knocked on the front door of Ella's house, a scowl on his face. He'd been standing there for the past four or five minutes waiting for her to answer, and frankly, he was getting annoyed. He had seen the side lamp illuminating her room from the street, so he assumed that she was in there. Besides, she had told him that she didn't have any plans that night. The Impala wasn't in the driveway, so Frances was probably out working at the bar again—it was Friday night after all. With a forceful sigh, the teen hopped over the side of the porch and made his way over to Ella's window, tapping on it a few times, wondering if she had fallen asleep or something. Hell, he wouldn't doubt that she might have—she was dragging ass most of the time, always ready to go out like a light. When she didn't answer, Dallas pushed the window up and climbed inside, shaking his head at the thought that Ella still hadn't bothered to lock the damn thing.

Looking around her room, he saw that it was empty, and his brows pressed together as he wondered where in the hell his girlfriend was. And then he imagined that she had possibly gone out and her mother was home. Well, shit. But Dallas took his chances, stepping out into the hall and peeking out into the living room, listening for anyone possibly being there. The house was vacant, though, and it didn't take long for him to realize that, and he found himself slightly irked as he wondered where Ella had gone off to. She had told him originally that she wanted to stay in, get some rest or some stupid bullshit, and the only places he could imagine her going were Evie's or the Curtis's. Dallas usually didn't give a shit about any of the things Ella did that didn't pertain to their relationship, but something wasn't right, and for a moment, he considered his girlfriend's mother, silently hoping that nothing had happened to the woman—Jesus Christ.

Dallas walked into the kitchen, reaching for the main rottery and dialing Evie's number, or what he thought was Evie's number. Luck wasn't on his side that night, because apparently he hadn't dialed the correct number and was yelled at by some older woman about what time it was, blah-fucking-blah. At least he knew the Curtis's number off the top of his head, and with a irritated expression, he called their house. Darry had been the one to answer, and when Dallas questioned him about Ella being there, Darry merely told him that Steve was out with Evie, and he hadn't seen Ella Mitchell at all. He'd even asked Ponyboy, to which the younger teen said he hadn't seen her, either.

The blond hung the phone up and made his way back to Ella's room, sitting down on the bed. He dug around his pocket for his cigarettes, leaning over to crack her front window as he lit up. Fuckin' Ella. He figured then that she had dropped her mother off at work with the knowledge that she had a ride home, or her mother had just gotten a ride in from someone else. In reality, he really didn't give a shit about that. What he did care about was where the fuck Ella was. Now, Dallas wasn't an over-protective kind of guy, didn't get clingy or attached, but Ella was . . . a fucking dope at the best (or worst) of times, and he could just imagine her stupid ass doing something—

His thoughts were halted as he considered what in the fuck she _was_ doing, and as the thoughts loomed on his conscious, he found himself growing angry. Oh, he had a damn good idea what in the hell she was up to, and just the very thought of it was enough to rattle him, set him on edge. Son-of-a-bitch. He should have seen this coming. And just as he flicked his ashes into the ashtray placed on her night table, a folded envelope caught his eye. It was placed between a book and a 45, and with a cocked eyebrow, the blond snatched it in his hands, eyes scanning the return address as he flipped the paper open, lips smoothing out into a straight line.

 _Congratulations! On behalf of the faculty and staff at Berkeley College, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Berkeley . . ._

Dallas read the letter through, eyes narrowing as he wondered why Ella hadn't mentioned this to him, or why she hadn't told him about applying . . . or anything. A sneer crossed his face just then, and he shoved the paper back into the envelope and tossed it back on the table. Stubbing his cigarette out, he turned on his heel and climbed back out the window, pulling it back down hardly before making his way off of the property and disappearing into the night.

* * *

Ella followed Dwayne into the kitchen where Cody was seated, three empty beer bottles placed in front of him on the old wooden table, a set of cards scattered about, and the air thick with smoke. The walls were yellowed and cracked, dirty dishes lined up and piled in the sink, the smell of alcohol becoming more and more prevalent the further they moved. Dwayne took a seat at the table beside Cody, and Gentry stood in the kitchen entrance, watching the scene with an apathetic stare. Ella looked unsure of what to do, but she took the seat facing Dwayne, her back toward Gentry.

Dwayne inhaled his cigar, the smoke billowing out of his mouth. "Yer mamma still around?" he asked, eyeing Ella plainly. He placed his gun on the table in front of himself, gaze not once leaving the girl's face. "Heard she was . . ."

Ella's lips pursed. "I'm not here to talk about my mother." Her voice was quivering a little. "I want to know why you left, and why you denied that I'm your daughter."

But Dwayne's hand hit the table hardly, the few glasses rattling. The room went silent, a tension filling the atmosphere as the man glowered across the table at the girl who was his flesh and blood. His eyes burned into her face as he wished Frances Wright had never gotten knocked up with the bitch, and he wished that he'd never met that fucking whore nineteen years ago. But he'd been drunk, and she was there . . . and he made the fucking mistake of pursuing her. Next thing he knew, the dumb bitch was pregnant and they were married off, bing, bang, boom. But his hatred had manifested the moment he'd set eyes on Ella, the reminder of Frances playing at the forefront of his mind; he should have just killed her all those years ago, been done with it.

Ella's eyes suddenly rounded as Dwayne grabbed his gun, cocked it, and aimed it at her. "You ever come 'round here lookin' for me again, I'll blow your brains out, girl. You may share my last name, but you ain't mine, and you ain't never gon' be." His face was twisting by the second. "You git the hell out of here and don't come back, and tell that boyfriend of yers the same thing." His finger twitched on the trigger, and Ella could feel her entire body freeze at once. "You come back, and I'll put yer mother where I should've nineteen years ago, you hear?" And although it wasn't exactly a question, Ella had nodded, too afraid to do anything else. And Dwayne continued. "Don't think about goin' to the cops, either . . . or else." He nodded toward Gentry. "Git her the fuck outta here."

Cody was smirking as Gentry pulled Ella out of the chair and led her to the front door, giving her a light shove out into the night air. She looked pale, like she was about to be sick right there on the front porch, but she maintained composure, only regarding Gentry with a look of innate disgust. Well, he had tried to get her out of there . . . but it had been too late.

He glared down at her stricken form. "Don't come back."

And then the door closed in her face, and Ella let out the breath she had been holding, her heart picking up speed as she made her way to her car, her gut swarming with butterflies as she climbed back in, her mind racing with thoughts of what just happened, the fear of it all pulsating throughout her veins and making her feel lightheaded. She hadn't even known that her hands were shaking as she turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life, until she placed them on the steering wheel, her eyes still broad and filled with terror.

 _We have got to get it together  
_

 _We have got to get it together now_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	24. Beat You Down

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers own "Learning to Fly."**

* * *

 _Well some say life will beat you down  
_

 _Break your heart, steal your crown_

 **October 18, 1966**

Dallas chucked an empty can of beer across the room, his bottom lip wedged between his teeth. He had been drinking all afternoon, thoughts resting on Ponyboy's book that was placed on the bedside table just waiting to be read. Thing is, Dallas didn't want to read anymore of the damn thing, didn't want to remember the events that had reshaped his life over a year ago. He'd been doing his best to just forget about all of it, to ignore those blasted dreams of Johnny Cade calling out, his voice echoing about his mind as the flames consumed him. But he needed something to occupy his time, make him shove his other thoughts concerning Ella aside. Fuck. He hadn't seen her at all, hadn't bothered to visit her, or call her, or . . . anything. He was pissed at her, that much was for certain, and truthfully, he didn't want a damn thing to do with her. Stupid broad.

He pictured her in his mind, wondering what on Earth he was still doing with her. It always came back to this, too. Ella was vivid at the forefront of his thoughts, her hair long and thick and straight, and her eyes fixated on his with that pathetic look she always had. Glory. What started out as him simply being physically attracted to her had led to him actually taking a true liking to her, not that he would ever fucking admit that to anyone—not even Ella herself. But he did give a shit about her, even if it was just barely so, but it was enough that the idea of talking to her just to find out if his assumptions were correct was intriguing. Fucking Ella. Jesus Christ, but the dope was more trouble than he'd realized, and a part of him figured that he was rubbing off on her.

Maybe he should've just ditched her ass the first time she declined putting out for him. It would have saved his ass a lot of trouble in the long run. But now he was wrapped up in the fucking mess with her loser of a father—Dwayne—and Gentry still owed him money, the prick. It didn't matter that Ella was Dwayne's daughter or not. Dallas didn't give a hang about any of that. What he did care about was getting fucked out of his earnings by Gentry, Dwayne threatening him and Buck, and then Ella fucking lying to him. It was one large domino effect, wasn't it? The teen was getting sick of this shit, and he decided that he would find Ella later, settle things once and for all.

For now, though, he grabbed the book off the table, dropping it beside him on the bed as he lit up a well needed cancer stick, eyes narrowing. He remembered where he'd left off, and he honestly dreaded on picking up after it. With a deep sigh, one that was more out of annoyance than anything else, Dallas opened the book slowly, thumbing through the pages until he found the next chapter, eyes staring at the words Ponyboy had written, his memory seeming to come to life as he remembered that night. Oh, he could see Johnny in the ambulance beside him, see the burns across his body as he demanded to know if the kid was gonna be okay. Johnny had been unconscious, and Dally remembered yelling at one of the medics, coughing here and there because of all the smoke he had inhaled. He remembered running into that church after Johnny screamed for him, Ponyboy falling down like a sack of potatoes after he'd whacked his back to put the fire out—stupid kid.

Oh, yeah. He could remember every moment of that night, and all of the worry and pain that he thought he'd shoved away for good suddenly came bubbling up through the pit of his stomach, getting caught in his throat as he began reading for the first time in weeks.

 _Now there were three of us sitting in the waiting room waiting to hear how Dally and Johnny were . . ._

* * *

Evie met up with Ponyboy at his locker, brow raising as she watched him attempt to balance his books in hand and reach for a pair of sneakers at the same time. He nodded to her in greeting, looking just as ready to beat it out of there as she did. Since Two-Bit was leaving with Bridget and it was raining, Evie had offered to give Ponyboy a ride home. Besides, it wasn't like they really lived that far apart. She almost missed the days when Steve drove her home, but working full time alongside Soda at the DX prevented him from doing so, and though she wouldn't admit it, walking home or even taking the public bus by herself unnerved her. She was glad to have her father's old car, but what really put a damper on things was that Beth would be getting her permit soon. Oh, glory.

"You okay?" Evie inquired, glancing at the younger teen's face. "You look pale."

Ponyboy shook his head. "Nah, I'm fine. Just a little worried because I have a math test Friday, and to be honest, I've been helping Two-Bit study and haven't had much time for myself."

The girl nodded, unsure of what to say. Ponyboy was usually quiet around her, but ever since they had gotten to know each other a little more in art class, he had seemed to loosen up around her. Evie had always been rather fond of the youngest Curtis sibling, even though he had hardly spoke around her, and whenever he did, his voice was always soft and low, and she was never able to make out what he was saying. She remembered him hanging around Johnny Cade back in the day a lot, and it made her stomach sink a little as she thought about how lonely he must be. But Evie knew all too well what it was like to lose a best friend, to not have them hanging around or there to speak to, and well, she did sympathize. She hadn't spoken to Sandy since she'd left for Florida, and she barely spoke to Sylvia anymore, only the few phones calls here and there. It was as if her old friends had disappeared entirely and left her alone in some void. Evie imagined that Ponyboy felt similar, but in the end, they both had a friend in Ella Mitchell . . . and each other.

The two teenagers made their way out to the student parking lot and over to Evie's car. They were met with silence once they were inside, and as if on cue, the rain started coming down harder, the windshield submerged. Evie squinted, starting the ignition and turning the wipers on, her headlights looking almost non-existent with how dark it had gotten. The girl let out a nervous laugh, looking over at the younger teen beside her.

"I've always been nervous about driving in the rain," she found herself saying, and leaned back in the seat. "I don't think I've ever told Steve that before."

Ponyboy stared out the passenger side window, watching as other students drove through the lot and headed out onto Fifth. But with one quick glance at Evie, he immediately could tell that she was anxious, and that surprised him. He'd always thought that Evie was a tough girl, not the kind that Steve had warned him and Johnny to stay away from, like Sylvia, but for some unknown reason, the fact that Evie was almost petrified in her seat was shocking.

"I don't mind waiting," he replied, shifting in the passenger seat. And really he didn't. "Heck, I've got enough homework to keep me busy anyway."

Evie chuckled, smiling at the younger teen beside her. "You're an alright kid, Ponyboy." Her eyes met his. "I mean that. I'm glad we've started talkin' more, you know, even if it's only because we share a class and bump into each other in the halls and stuff."

"Yeah." Ponyboy glanced at her, then, taking in her relaxed facial features. Her eyes weren't like that, though, and for the first time, Ponyboy could see that Evie wasn't how a lot of people described her, or made her out to be. She was just a regular girl, with hopes and dreams of one day becoming a stylist or beautician—she wanted to make something of herself. He remembered her telling him that a week or so back while they painted self portraits in art one morning. He believed that she would get there one day, that she would do well for herself. "Me, too."

The rain was drumming down on the roof of the car, the student parking lot nearly vacant. Evie leaned back in the seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel. She wasn't sure why she had told Ponyboy that she was nervous to drive during a storm, but she felt like she could—like she could trust him. She didn't imagine him to be the type to go around blabbing out secrets or telling other people things about his friends. And then Evie froze. Was Ponyboy her friend? Did he think of her as a friend? Well, he and Ella were friends, that was for certain, and Mary . . . The brunette wondered what Ponyboy thought of his brother's girlfriend . . .

"You still talk to Ella?" she decided to ask, voice casual.

Ponyboy shrugged. "Here and there. She's with Dally a lot, so . . ."

The girl nodded. "Yeah, I hear that. But she's happy, you know?"

"I suppose." And then he grinned. "I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation, Evie."

She made a face, lips pursing for a second. "It's just that— Alright, I've been worried about her, you know . . . with her father and all." She shrugged. "She seemed so intent on finding him and all, and I just worry because . . . with her mother being ill back in the Summer . . ." Her gaze drifted in his direction. "You get what I mean?"

And he nodded. He did understand what she meant, because more times than none, he felt the same way—and not just for Ella. There had been a change happening around all of them, a shift, as if something was going to happen, something that would change all of them. People were changing, the kids were changing . . . and it wasn't just in their town, or their state . . . it was everywhere. Ponyboy had noticed it subtly taking place during the Summer, and with his friends, things were changing, too. Ella's father being back in town had placed the girl in dangerous predicament, and with Dally getting involved, things were tense. But for some unfathomable reason, Randy Adderson came to mind, and Ponyboy remembered him sitting there on the bench across from the library a few months ago, the way he was so at ease and calm . . .

But Evie seemed to be on the same page as him, and when her voice broke his thoughts with the words that tumbled out of her mouth, he felt himself stiffen a little.

"Do you think things will be different?"

It took a few seconds for him to answer, but when he did, he wished that he was lying. "Yeah, I think they will be."

* * *

Ella sorted through Mrs. Johnson's laundry, separating the whites and colors the way that the woman liked, before dumping them into two washers in the back. A yawn passed through her lips as she turned the machines on, drying her hands off on her apron. She was truly thankful for the cooler air, and with a small smile, she remembered one year ago how she went over the basics of geometry with Dallas while they sat in the T-Bird at their usual spot, munching on fast food. Lord, he had surely hated her then, and just thinking about that caused her to grimace lightly. She hadn't seen or heard from her boyfriend since last week, and when she'd gone out looking for him during the weekend, he was nowhere to be found. The girl couldn't fathom it, but she knew that something was up—she wasn't a stupid girl. She had known that Dallas climbed into her room while she was out at the Slash J last Friday evening, and she knew that he'd seen her acceptance letter from Berkeley, too. The thought alone was enough to make her cringe, and she had a feeling that Dally was intentionally avoiding her.

As she bent down to pull a finished load of laundry from one of the dryers, she heard the bell up front ding as somebody entered the store. These were the days that Ella sincerely missed working at the old grocery store; she always had the company of Jan to make her laugh at something, or just to talk to her. But now—here—she didn't have that familiarity or comfort, and it suddenly dawned on the brown-haired girl just how alone she was—and not just at work.

With the basket in hand, Ella stood up, using her hip to close the door to the dryer, a piece of her hair falling into her face from where it had come out of the sloppy bun on her head. Glory, but Ella had just given up on styling her mane of frizzy locks every day. It was just too much of a hassle, and besides, it wasn't as if she was impressing anyone. Dallas didn't seem to care what she did with herself either way, so Ella stopped trying. She simply brushed her hair out and braided it, or wrapped it up nicely on top of her head, only for it to loosen up and fall back into her face throughout the day. She shook her head at the thought, moving to place the basket of freshly cleaned laundry onto the folding table, shaking the clothes out as she got to work on folding.

"You look terrible."

Ella jerked around, eyes widening at the sight of Angela Shepard standing beside her. "Angela," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. "What are you doing here?"

Truthfully, Ella was shocked to see the younger girl, having not spoken to her since Matt Brown's party several weeks back. Angela still looked the same as she always did, curly hair cascading down her back in a heavy mass of blue-black, tiger eyes focused and set, makeup thick and dark. Yeah, she hadn't changed at all, not that Ella expected her to. Honestly, Ella wasn't all that thrilled to see Angela, especially since she had ditched her at the party without so much as a goodbye or a screw you, or anything. No, instead, she had sat outside waiting around like an idiot, only to meet up with Curly Shepard and then Dallas Winston, not that she minded the latter.

Angela grinned. "Washer broke again, so . . . well, it ain't like my ma is gonna do anything . . ." She shrugged. "I heard that you practically live in this place now."

Ella snorted. "Sure feels like it sometimes." She shook out a pair of jeans before folding them. "I work twelve hours a day, five days a week, so yeah, it's almost as if I never leave."

"Damn," Angela responded, and licked her lips. "Well, I bet you get paid good. At least you got a job. I can't work yet . . . at least nothin'—" She paused, making a face, before continuing. "Nothing that can be put down on papers, you know."

The older girl's brows pressed together. She knew that Angela wasn't exactly a saint—the farthest thing from, to be honest, but something in the sound of her voice made Ella shudder. She didn't exactly come from the good side of town herself, but never had she succumbed to doing anything illegal. Ella had a pretty good idea what Angela meant, and though she didn't condemn the younger teen, the mental picture of Angela selling drugs made her feel sick. She tried to think of herself at fifteen, or just about fifteen years old. She didn't have a job yet, but she busied herself with school and studying, and before her neighbors down the road—Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler—moved, Ella had babysat their three children. It was safe to say that she had led a very different life than Angela Shepard.

"Yeah," she eventually said, reaching for a towel. "Maybe you can work here part-time when you turn sixteen. I'll put in a good word for you."

Angela looked thoughtful. "I don't think any place would wanna hire me, not with who my brothers are." She let out a dry laugh. "Hell, my last name alone is enough to make most people spit at me, but thanks for the offer."

There was a moment of silence that surrounded the two girls, and Ella almost pitied Angela. She looked her over out her of peripheral vision, taking in her stressed expression and the very faint lines around her eyes. Glory, but Angela was only a child, much like Ella herself. It occurred to her right then how messed up life was, how cruel it could be, and then her thoughts drifted toward Dallas. She wondered about him and where he was at those young ages. What about when he lived in New York? She had never been able to get much out of him because he was so tightly wound, but what she had been able to grasp that life hadn't treated him too kindly, either.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she merely nodded. "Sure."

And Angela was already moving onto another topic. "So, how long have you an ol' Dallas been together now?"

"Two months," she answered quietly, wondering how it didn't even feel like it had been that long. "I guess it didn't take long to get the ball rolling after you ditched me at Matt Brown's party."

The black-haired girl looked almost offended, but it only lasted a few seconds. "Well, I met up with . . . someone." She shook her head. "Gosh, Ella, you're three years older than me, and you drove yourself, so what's the big deal?" Her arms crossed over her chest, and for a moment, Ella thought that she was about to pout. "Besides, if it helped—"

"Stop," Ella practically hissed, and shook her head, heaving a sigh. "I mean, I'm not _mad_ at you, not quite anyway, but . . ." Her hands pressed against the table as she leaned forward. "Look, I just have a lot on my mind right now."

Angela stared at her, forehead wrinkling as her eyebrows knitted closer together. The rumors about Ella's father hadn't exactly been a secret, and Angela had a feeling that whatever was causing Ella's stress had something to do with him. But she wasn't there to discuss Dwayne Mitchell or any of that, and judging from the look on Ella's face, she wasn't either. That was just fine with Angela, though, because she had enough troubles of her own to deal with, and as her eyes scoped the laundromat with a bored look reflecting in them, she decided that Ella's issues were far worse than her own.

* * *

Mary looked herself over in her mirror, studying the dress that she knew would make her aunt shake her head in disapproval. But for once, Mary thought that she looked nice, different almost, but in a good way, a mature way. The lavender number hung loosely on her, fitting nicely around her small frame and making her olive complexion stand out a little more. Her hair was done in loose ringlets, falling down her back and spilling over her shoulders. The kitten heels she wore gave her some height, and for once, Mary felt pleased with herself. There was just one thing that seemed to be nagging at her deep in her thoughts, and that was Aunt Vera's voice chewing away at her about the length of the dress, which stopped quite a few inches above her knees. The girl frowned, running her hands over the soft material and biting her lip nervously.

Aunt Vera had been incredibly lenient with her ever since she had stood up to her, but within reason, of course. Soda wasn't allowed on the property at all, so Mary would always be ready for their dates early, watching for him out her bedroom window. Aunt Vera didn't want to know a thing, and the remarks that she made to her niece about her "beau" were almost despicable. Under her breath, she would make a snide remark directed at Soda, or she would practically inspect Mary once she arrived home, looking for any form of indecency that she deemed Soda would attempt with her. But Mary didn't feel that way. And Soda had never attempted to try or talk her into anything she wasn't comfortable with. Aunt Vera's demeanor, though, had made a turn for the worse, and Mary wondered if the woman was intentionally trying to force her into something she would regret.

Oh, she wouldn't put it passed her. Aunt Vera was cunning and manipulative, and she had no qualms whatsoever with making sure she was always right.

Raising her chin, Mary decided that she wasn't going to let Aunt Vera get under her skin any more than she had been trying to for the past few weeks. No. Tonight, she was going to be happy, she was going to forget about Aunt Vera and how the woman dominated her life, she was going to be with Soda, and she was going to be okay. But her legs were trembling a little as she made her way downstairs toward the foyer, trying to focus on the fact that Soda was only right outside, that she would be with him in just a minute or so . . .

"What a lovely dress, Mary."

The girl jerked to the side, chin lowering as her eyes found her aunt's, her chest tightening at once. "I purchased it in town the other day," she replied, attempting to keep her voice level. "Do you like it?"

Aunt Vera tsked, eyes remaining fixed. "You purchased it to temp that boy, didn't you?" Her expression turned ugly, then. "I've always taught you to be proper, Mary. That"—She pointed at the dress—"is not proper for a young lady to adorn on a date. You look foolish."

But Mary remained firm as well. "Well, I like it."

"Of course you do." She watched her niece make her way down the stairs, only stopping her when she was within reach, her bony hand enclosing around the girl's forearm. "Don't you let that boy try anything with you, do you hear me, Mary?" Her grip tightened. "He may tell you that he loves you, he may try anything to make you sin." And with a hard tug, they were face to face. "Remember what I've taught you, Mary. And if you walk out that door wearing that dress, you will be punished." She released her arm, then, face smoothing out. "Do I make myself clear?"

But Mary was too afraid to answer either way, too perturbed to even acknowledge the woman. And only when she was able to gather enough sense did she turn on her heel and scamper out the door, her breathing heavy as her legs carried her to Soda's awaiting car. It was then that she noticed the small tear in the sleeve of her dress where her aunt had jerked her forward, the seam split open and small frays staring back at her watering eyes.

* * *

Ella stiffened at the sound of her window being tapped on. Only one person ever dared to do so, and Ella wasn't sure that she wanted to allow her boyfriend inside. She had been trying to find him for the past few days, but all to no avail. She had learned fairly quickly that if Dallas Winston didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. Her thoughts had been eating away at her, and she had a feeling that she and Dallas wouldn't be exchanging any form of pleasantries this particular night. But she knew that she would have to face him sooner or later, and she figured that she might as well just get it over with. And besides, if she decided to wait, it would only be worse on both of them.

Pulling the drapes aside, the girl pushed the window up, stepping back so that her boyfriend could climb inside her bedroom. He closed the window and pulled the drapes back in place, his expression almost calm. But Ella knew him better than that, and whenever Dallas was calm, it usually meant that there was something else lurking beneath the surface. Her own countenance remained collected, and as she stared up at him, eyes boring into his own, she crossed her arms over her chest, securing her robe in place as she forced herself to remain cool.

"Where have you been?"

The blond's nose wrinkled, eyes narrowing a little. "Around." He took in her tense exterior, wondering if she was really that pissed or not. But he reminded himself that this was Ella he was dealing with, and she had always been a little firecracker. Shit, but maybe she would come at him swinging, not that he would mind all that much, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with her bullshit, he simply just wanted to drop by and check in. Apparently, Ella wasn't in a good mood. "What's up with you?"

Ella tossed her hands up in the air, before turning away from him. "What's up with me? I've been looking all over for you, Dallas. Where were you?"

He moved so that he was standing at the end of her bed, diagonally facing her. "Could ask you the same thing, you know." He fished around his pockets for a cigarette, lighting up and inhaling. "But I suppose you're gonna make this all about me, huh?"

"I know you were here Friday night," she replied, voice lowering.

And that was when he made his way closer to her, eyes blazing down at her face. "Yeah, and where the hell were you, sweets? I thought you said you didn't have any plans, so I stopped by, assuming you would be here, but you weren't."

Ella was tired, her eyes closing as she rubbed her hands over her face. She didn't want to argue with Dallas any more than she wanted to tell him what had happened Friday night at the Slash J. Glory, but he would surely rip her a new one, and truthfully, Ella wasn't looking forward to that. Honestly, she had been doing nothing but worrying about her father and Gentry for the past few days, and when she closed her eyes at night, she was meant with the barrel of his gun in her face, her body trembling as she wondered if he'd really do it or not, if he would really kill his own daughter. But Ella remembered all too clearly what his face had looked like when he threatened her, how his voice sounded as he aimed the gun at her, and she had been so frightened.

But looking at Dallas right then made her want to tell him the truth, but she feared what he would say to her, or worse, what he would do. Dallas was impulsive by nature, driven by dangerous methods, and Ella didn't want him to do something rash, like going after her father or Gentry. No. Dwayne had warned her to keep Dallas away, and she would—even if that meant that she had to jeopardize her relationship with him.

"I went to see my father," she stated, gaze landing on the floor. Her fingers tightened around her arms from where she crossed them, her heart beginning to pound harder. "I found him, too."

Dallas felt like he was about to blow the fuck up, but he forced himself with every fiber of his being to keep calm. Jesus, but he always knew that Ella was a stupid fucking broad, always getting into shit that she didn't need to stick her nose into. She was dumb, looking for trouble where he told her not to, and for fuck's sake . . . she couldn't even listen when he was trying to look out for her. Stupid bitch.

He sucked on his cigarette, the nicotine doing little to settle his nerves. "And?"

And then she had the nerve to turn away from him. "He told me to stay away, that's all," came the quiet answer, and Dallas felt his blood boiling. "He doesn't have any interest in seeing me, doesn't want me to see him or anything." There was a moment of silence that past, and suddenly Ella started chuckling, though she didn't find anything amusing or comical. Her voice was starting to shake, a sign that she was on the brink of tears. "Hell, he doesn't even want to know who I am, or . . . anything about me." A sniffle. "He told me I'm not even really his daughter. Well, I am, but . . . to him, I'm not."

Dallas was staring at her harshly, wondering what in the fuck happened. He wasn't stupid, and he knew that there was more to the story than what Ella was relaying. But he didn't give a shit about that right then, even if Ella was being over-dramatic.

"Where's he stayin'?" he bit out, moving to stand behind her. When she didn't answer fast enough, he reached out, jerking her around so that they were fully facing each other. But before he could demand to know what he wanted, something in her eyes caught him off guard. Her pupils were large and dark, the reflection of absolute fear flashing through her blue irises. It was unmistakable. He knew then that he wasn't wrong in his assumptions, that there was more to it, but what? His hands gripped the sides of her forearms, her hands enclosing around his wrists as she stared up at him. "What the hell happened?"

Glory, but she was beginning to shake. "I can't tell you, Dallas." Her eyes were suddenly frantic as she searched his own. "You can't go after him. Please."

But her words were lost on deaf ears as the blond released her rather harshly, moving to stub his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray on her night table. He eyed her critically, taking in the way her body was stiff and tensed up. Hell, he had seen her pent up and angry before, or sad and bitchy, but the hood couldn't remember any time that he had ever witnessed her so terrified. But something inside of him snapped at the thought that Ella was acting like that, too afraid to tell him what he needed to know, and it occurred to him that she could be protecting her bastard father.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want, girl, and you ain't gonna stop me." He grabbed her shoulder, turning her back around as he sneered down at her. "Even if you don't tell me where the hell he's at, I'll find him somehow, and believe me, Ella, I've got a good idea where to start lookin'."

He brushed passed her then, not really giving a shit about what he had to do. He had his mind set on finding Dwayne Mitchell. Besides, Gentry Knox still owed him money, and he surely wasn't going to let that slip. Yeah, he had a pretty good idea where the hell Dwayne Mitchell was hiding out—him and his buddy, too. His teeth were grinding together hardly as he made his way over to Ella's side window, only stopping when she called out for him, a tremor in her voice as she said his name, tears in her eyes and body visibly horror filled. He couldn't imagine what in the hell had happened Friday night that was making Ella act like this, but he assumed Dwayne had threatened her good.

"Don't . . . go," she said, voice cracking. "Please, Dally." Her chest was tightening up, the feeling of breathing starting to hurt. "He'll kill her . . . my mother . . . _please_."

And in all his time knowing her, Dallas had never once heard her beg or plead with him, or anyone, and it suddenly dawned on him what Ella was saying. Dwayne hadn't just threatened her, he had threatened the one constant in her life, and that was why she was so perturbed. Jesus H. Christ, but the thought alone was enough to piss him off even more, but Ella's shaking frame unnerved him even more than that alone. Glory, he had never witnessed her so worked up before, and he had seen her after Craig Bryant—Fish-Eyes—had done one helluva number on her.

"Ella—"

"Dallas."

She stood firm, even though her hands were shaking and she felt sick. Hell, she could see Dwayne, her own father, pointing a loaded gun at her, could remember the sound of him cocking it, and then his voice was in her mind over and over threatening her with putting her mother six feet under. She wasn't crying anymore, and for a moment, she didn't know if she could even if she wanted to. She was scared, she was nervous, and she was worried, but more than anything, she just wanted Dallas to stay . . . even if it was only for a few more minutes. But she sat down on her bed, ignoring the way his icy gaze glowered from beside her as she eased her nerves. And then the mattress sunk a little as Dallas took a seat beside her, digging around his pocket for another cigarette, his expression anything but pleasant.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled out. She heard him light up, and quickly stole a glance at him. "Dal—"

"Shut up," he said, not bothering to look at her. His face was hardening, eyes blank. Jesus Christ, but he still couldn't believe that Ella had been so fucking stupid. The smoke billowed out of his mouth as he stared straight ahead, eyes burning a hole into her dresser. And then a moment later, they were on her, stone like. "What the fuck were you thinkin'?"

Ella's face jutted in his direction. "I don't know," she admitted, sounding dull. "I just wanted—" She paused, shoulders slumping. "I wanted to see him."

"Yeah, I'll bet," came the indignant response. "Look where that got ya."

Her teeth grinded as she shot him a harsh glare. "Screw you, Dallas. He might not be a good person, and he might have shunned me at the rodeo, but he's still my father, and you don't own me." Her voice was rising with each word that fell from her mouth. "You can't tell me what to do."

And as she made to stand, his arm jutted out, his hand wrapping around her arm and pulling her back to face him, his glacier gaze meeting her own fiery one. They glared at one another, neither one backing down from the other, and only when the ashes from the cigarette were about to fall did Dallas release the girl from his grasp. But he wasn't done with her. Far from, actually. His lips pressed together as he tossed his second half-finished cigarette into the ashtray, turning back to face Ella, who hadn't budged from her spot at all.

"If you want to be a fucking idiot, then go for it, toots," he countered. "I ain't stoppin' ya." His lips were twisting up into a cold smirk. "But eat your own damn words." And then he stood up, towering over her. "He may be your old man, but you sure as hell ain't his kid."

Ella's eyes widened at the harshness in his tone, the way he had spoken so calmly and so plainly. But she was angry, more so than she had been before. Her jaw clenched as her hands balled up into fists, teeth grinding together as she stared up at the stupid smile on his lips. Lord, sometimes she seriously hated Dallas Winston, hated him for being able to get under her skin and tell her off, hated the fact that he could get her so worked up like this. She both hated and loved him at the same time, but that's how it had always been, she reckoned—she both liked and disliked him because he didn't back down or shy away because she was a girl, or because she got riled up with a heated attitude. But now he had pushed her buttons—one too many—and before she could process her thoughts, her actions spoke first, letting the blond know just how livid she was.

"Fuck you," she growled, shoving him backward. "Fuck you!"

That time, she forced her weight into pushing him, and Dallas stumbled back just a little, but it was enough to flare his anger up a notch. Fuckin' Ella. She fueled his temper more than anyone, wormed herself beneath his skin and challenged him more times than he could count. Sometimes, he really just wanted to knock her block off, but he wouldn't raise a hand to her. He got angry with her, but even in that haze of red, he had some form of sense. Instead, he grounded himself as Ella screamed her head off, hitting his chest a few more times, though it wasn't hard. But he'd had enough of her pathetic antics, and when she came at him again, eyes glassy and brimmed with tears, he reached out in one fluid motion and grabbed both of her flailing arms, jerking her around and pushing her against the wall opposite the side window he climbed through. She was still yelling at him, but it was frustrated cries, her hands gripping his arms right below his elbows.

His brows crinkled as he stared at her, listening to the words coming out of her mouth. "Jesus Christ, girl. Who the hell gave you that mouth?"

And it dawned on him that he had been rubbing off on her. Well, fuck. Something about that was a bit amusing, but Dallas didn't care to think about it. Instead, his fist hit the wall beside her head to startle her enough to make her shut the hell up. Her features were still twisted up, though, and he could hear how hard her breaths were as he moved to her level.

Her eyes burned into his own. "Let me go, Dallas." Her nostrils flared when he didn't budge. "You're hurting me—"

"Good," he spit. "Maybe you'll listen, broad." He was seething, and part of him didn't know why he had even bothered to stay there. Hell, he would have upped and left any other time, not giving a shit or two about what happened afterward. But Ella . . . she tested him, pissed him off so much that he wanted to drill her stupidity from his perspective back into her head just so she could understand how fucking dumb she was. Christ almighty. He wasn't afraid to go back at her, though, to cut her down from her pedestal and tell her shit like it was. And that was just another part of their cycle together. They liked each other, got along, got pissed at each other, and then fought it out until the fucking process started all over again. "I don't know what the hell happened with you and your old man, but I've got business with Knox, and guess what, sweets? It's a two way street. I'll do whatever the fuck I want, too."

Ella swallowed, chin raising as she stared at him. "My mother—"

"Knox ain't got nothin' to do with her," he replied. "I want my dough." And what Ella didn't know was that she had just given Dallas the answer that he needed. He had a feeling that Dwayne Mitchell was staying with Gentry Knox, and now he knew for certain. He shook his head, releasing the girl from his hold. "Don't worry about it."

But Dallas had other plans, plans that Ella didn't need to know about. He knew that she was going to worry, but it didn't matter to him. Regardless if his main issue was with Gentry Knox, Dwayne Mitchell still had a part in it, and he wasn't going to let him get away, either.

 _I'm learning to fly, around the clouds  
_

 _But what goes up must come down_

* * *

 **A lot of tension in this chapter, huh?**

 **As always, thank you for all of the positive and encouraging feedback. It's always appreciated! :3**


	25. Find A Way

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Strumbellas own "We Don't Know."**

* * *

 _Well I know it gets harder every single day  
_

 _And I know my darkness will never go away_

 **October 22 – 23, 1966**

Mary had been devastated for the past few days, and even seeing Soda wasn't enough to ease the ache in her heart, or put a smile on her face. He had called her a few times asking for a date, but each time that he did, she couldn't bring herself to oblige. She had returned home Tuesday night from their date to find that Aunt Vera hadn't been just threatening her about being punished, for the woman had actually gone a step further than she ever had, leaving Mary to come home to find most of her belongings destroyed or removed from her possession. The library had been locked as well, and Mary seriously contemplated her aunt's behavior. The woman was either trying to make her feel like a prisoner, or she was set on destroying her relationship with the man she loved, and Mary assumed it was more of the latter than anything.

But Soda noticed her expression immediately, brows drawing together as she practically fell into his awaiting arms, her face against his chest. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were glossy, cheeks pale and almost sunken. He had never seen her like this before, and it worried him something awful. He knew about her aunt, knew that she had threatened her Tuesday evening when he'd picked her up, and he had been concerned ever since. But now he felt like a blasted fool. He'd told Mary not to take her aunt too seriously, that they would find a way to figure this out together, that things would be okay, but he had been wrong, terribly so, and he had a feeling that Mary's aunt had something to do with the girl's obvious emotional state. Mary had always been a nervous and shy girl, but seeing her approaching him with an expression that resembled sheer devastation shattered his heart.

His hands moved up and down her arms, trying to soothe her. "What's wrong, darlin'?" he tried, his voice gentle and soft. "Mary?"

She shook her head a little, her thin arms wrapping around his middle as she pressed closer to him. She wasn't sure she could speak just then, or tell him what had happened. Soda was always happy and upbeat, and just burdening him with her problems and seeing his face turn upset her. But Aunt Vera had been making her live like a prisoner for days, telling her that she could have her possessions back when she decided to act like a proper young lady and not some bewitched harlot. The words had stung, but Aunt Vera's word had always been law in their house, and Mary was never one to disobey in fear of being whipped, or having something of hers broken by the woman's hand.

"I'm so scared, Soda," she mumbled, her mouth pressed against the greasy fabric of his shirt. "Aunt Vera . . . she's getting worse."

And then he shifted, pulling back a little to look her in the eye. "What happened, Mary?"

Their eyes met, and Mary's lip trembled. She felt so utterly pathetic, laying her troubles on him, for making him worry about her like this. It wasn't right, and she knew that, and sometimes she wished that she and Soda could simply be together without the worry of her aunt breathing down their necks. The rules had been simple and easy . . . up until Tuesday night, that is. Aunt Vera hadn't commented on anything that Mary did, so long as her chores were completed and that she didn't bring up Soda's name. She had been allowed to see him whenever she wanted, for the most part, but he had to have her home by curfew, which they both made sure to abide by. Mary had never been late, she never talked back to Aunt Vera . . . nothing, and she realized that her attire had been what set her aunt off a little too late. But was it really so horrible? Was it really so "revealing" that Aunt Vera had broken a few of her records and concealed some of her belongings?

"I'm sorry," she said, fingers closing around his arms. "I don't mean to—"

"Mary," Soda repeated, stepping closer to her, his eyes level with hers and he bent down a bit. "What happened?" And despite the question, his tone hadn't come out harshly, but with concern leaking through every word. He breathed, keeping his gaze on hers. "I've never seen you like this before."

Glory, Mary looked so gloomy and miserable, but she spoke, her voice coming out in a whisper. "She wasn't happy about my dress. Do you remember me telling you that?" At his nod, she continued. "She told me that I would be punished if I left with you wearing it . . . and she—" A sniffle. "She broke my records and destroyed my room." The tears were falling down by then. "And that bracelet that you bought for me . . . she got rid of it."

Soda, for all his worth, didn't know what to do or what to say, but he had a good mind to go and tell Mary's aunt off. He was sick of her and the way she treated Mary, and how she regarded him like he was nothing more than the dirt on the bottom of her expensive shoes. He'd been proud when Mary told him several weeks back that she had stood up to her aunt, that she no longer cared what she had to say about them being together, but this? Her aunt was going to far, and Soda couldn't stand to see Mary this upset merely because she was seeing him, or because she wore a dress that her aunt deemed indecent or whatever because it was a few inches above her knees. It wasn't as if she was exposing herself for all of mankind. Her aunt was being ridiculous, and Soda was sick of it. Enough was enough already.

"Mary, we have to do something," he said. He ran his tongue over his teeth, a thoughtful look taking over his face. "I want to talk to her."

The girl's eyes broadened. "No, Soda. She won't—"

"I don't care," he shot back, letting go of her and running a hand through his golden locks. "This is all because of me." His eyes reflected bitter resentment, an emotion that Mary had never seen expressed on him until this moment. "She's only doing this because of me, and I'm just sick of it, Mary. I'm sick of her getting between us, and . . . and treating both of us like shit."

Mary didn't even frown when he used profanity, which he usually didn't in front of her. "I'm sick of her, too, Soda, but what good will it do?" Her eyes fell to the ground. "You even stepping foot onto the property will only anger her more, and then—"

"And then what, Mary?" he asked, taking her hands and tugging them a little. "What can she do? Call the fuzz on me?" Mary looked somewhere between perplexity and worry, and Soda wanted so bad just to remove those expressions from her face. "She can't get away with this."

The black-haired girl nodded. "She won't listen to me."

Soda's jaw clenched. "Maybe not, but I don't care, Mary. I'm going to talk to her . . . whether she likes it or not."

* * *

Dallas passed the cue to Tim, the older hood smirking as he took it from his hand. The blond took a step back, reaching for his beer as Tim leaned over the edge of the table, aiming the cue with that of a professional's form, and shot a solid straight across the table and into the left pocket. He grinned a bit, moving around the table to do the same thing again. Dallas would give Tim credit where it was due, and truthfully, Tim Shepard was one helluva pool player. But he wasn't at a downtown bar just to watch Tim free himself from boredom. No, he had other plans . . . plans which involved getting Tim's assistance on a particular thorn that had been digging into his side for the past month.

"So's, you want the son-of-a-bitch caught, do ya?" Tim asked, standing up to his full height once he had pocketed all of the balls. "Sounds interesting." He lit a cigarette, eyeing Dallas critically. "And how do you suppose we go about that?"

The younger teen shrugged. "Don't know, _Timmy_. See, that's why I came to you." His smirk was biting, but Tim was immune to Dallas's antics, so it didn't affect him, only causing him to roll his eyes. "Little birdy told me where he was hiding out."

"Oh, really?" came the drawn out response. He knew who said "birdy" was. He wasn't stupid. "And does _she_ know what you're up to?"

"No," Dallas responded sharply, tone measured. "And you sure as shit ain't gon' tell her nothin'." He moved over to where the dark-haired teen stood. "I want that bastard taken care of. Can you make it happen or not?"

Tim debated it. The idea itself was amusing at best. What? Sending a few anonymous tips to Tulsa's finest about Dwayne Mitchell? It was a risk, one Dallas was supposedly willing to take, but at what cost? Because he was becoming soft for some ditzy little chick? Or was it because Gentry Knox dicked him out of his earnings? Tim thought it was more of the former, and that was something he could really use to rub in the blond's face at another time. But this idea of his was outrageous, but then again, every fucking plan between him and Dallas was nothing short of ridiculous. Tim was smart, though, and so was Dallas, and the last thing Dallas wanted to do was drag his girlfriend into the mix. But Dwayne, idiot though he was, wasn't exactly . . . stupid. He would put two and two together, and if the bastard really threatened Ella's mother, Dallas was taking one large risk in trying to get the fucker caught. And then there was his partner. Cody something or other.

Tim licked his lips, taking a drag of his cigarette. "You sure you wanna do this?" He raised an eyebrow, eyes half slit. "You're taking a risk and placing your girl in the middle of it." He shrugged. "I don't give a shit either way, but—"

Dallas merely grinned, grim though it was. "Ella don't have nothin' to do with it, and I plan to keep it that way."

"And what about Dwayne Mitchell?" came the next inquiry. "How do you know he's still with Knox?"

"I don't, but I've got a feeling he didn't leave yet," Dallas answered, stealing the older boy's beer. "But either way, he's got my dough . . ." He pictured Ella in his mind just then, remembering the pathetic look on her face as she begged him not to go after her father. Tim didn't need to know any of that, though, not by a long shot. "Besides"—He twirled his pack of cigarettes around in his hand—"it's only the three of them, and Gentry Knox ain't much of a threat."

"You work for him."

Dallas's teeth pressed together, and he froze for a second. It was true, he did work for the Slash J, but it didn't matter none. Usually, Dallas wouldn't give a rat's ass about an issue like this, wouldn't so much as stick his nose into it. But it all started when Dwayne Mitchell came after him, threatening him and Buck about his horse, and then Gentry Knox had to give his earnings off to the fucking prick to keep him quiet about something that took place years ago. But Dallas knew if the fuzz caught Dwayne, Gentry would get charged for being an accomplice. His tongue ran over his teeth as he tapped the cigarette carton against the side of the pool table, his expression conflicted. He didn't want to care about something as pathetic as this, but . . . fuck, Ella's face in his mind continuously nagged at him, and though he wouldn't admit that he was fond of her—girlfriend or not—what happened between her and her old man that had her scared stiff was enough to make his blood boil.

"Big shit," he eventually said, nose wrinkling. "Ain't like anyone will know what the fuck happened anyway." He shrugged lethargically. "Gentry gets a sentence, it's on him."

The smoke wafted from Tim's parted lips, his eyes set on the younger hood. He didn't mind doing any kind of favors for those he kept in his circle, but even he had to admit that Dallas was taking an awfully dangerous risk by getting himself further involved with Dwayne Mitchell. But he had a point, too, and if ol' Knox wanted to assist the fugitive, then that was his problem. Tim really didn't care what happened either way, but he _did_ find it quite humorous how Dallas got himself wrapped up in all of it. Then again, Dallas always had a knack for being the center of any and all trouble.

Tim rubbed his hand across his chin. "I'll see what I can do."

And Dallas smirked, a bitter look in his pale blue irises. He knew that Tim would help him out, even if it was for something as petty as Dwayne Mitchell, and what he had up his sleeve really was petty. Who knew what the hell was going to happen? Dallas only cared about Dwayne getting his due, especially for what he'd done to Ella. Fuck, he told himself that he didn't care, because he didn't want to, but every time he thought about her, he felt angrier, filled to the brim with sheer vexation. He was still pissed at her for going to see him, and he blamed her for being stupid. If she never would have went to see him at all, he would have never threatened her or her mother, and whatever else. But no. The fault was on her, for if she had merely listened, none of them would be in this predicament. Dallas's issue was never directly with Dwayne. It was with Gentry for fucking him over in the first place. How convenient it was that Dwayne just happened to get in the way at the wrong time.

He nodded once at Tim. "Appreciate it."

The older teen stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, gaze focused as he considered his options and plans for that night. Something twisted in his gut, and for a moment, he considered on just saying fuck it and not going through with it. But who the hell was he kidding? Like he said, he didn't care either way what the outcome was—even if a little voice inside his head was telling him to back out. He shook it off, though, finding himself in the mood for a new game of pool. Fuck it all.

Dallas went first that time, breaking and sending two solids rolling down the end of the table, both falling into the same pocket. The corner of his mouth lifted as he moved to take his next aim, the look of satisfaction in his eyes not going unnoticed by the older teen.

* * *

Evie brushed a coat of dark blue polish over her right pinky toe, eyes intent on her work. Her body was bent forward as her lower back pressed against the side of Ella's bed. She had spent the night, the two girls engaging in gossip about what was going on in the high school while downing a bottle (or two) of strawberry wine and feasting on a variety of junk food that Ella had picked up from the store. They had gone to bed rather late, the alcohol in their system mellowing them out and intoxicating them with the feeling of sleep. But for Ella, the dazed feeling of drowsiness had been welcomed, and for the first time in a week, she slept almost soundly. Dwayne's face wasn't haunting her mind that much anymore, but no matter how relaxed she was, her brain was unable to permanently remove it.

Evie groaned, tossing her head back. "Great," she mumbled out, and rolled her eyes. She reached for a tissue, quickly rubbing it between her toes. "I painted my right toenails just fine, but I can't do the left side worth shit." She huffed. "I can't believe I just did that."

Ella chuckled. "I can." She narrowly dodge the balled up tissue that Evie had tossed at her. "Maybe you just drank too much last night."

"Says the one who downed an entire bottle by herself," came the immediate response, but there was no indication that the younger teen was any bit upset. "Hell, I thought Sylvia Evans was bad back in the day, but I'd be willin' to bet you could drink her straight under the table." Her lips quirked. "Only with wine, though. Surprisingly, Sylvia can hold her liquor pretty well. You ever seen her do shots?"

"No," Ella answered. "I wasn't real close with her. I mean, we've talked and stuff, and I considered her an acquaintance, but we weren't particularly close."

The brunette shrugged, going back to polishing her toenails. "She was something else, I'll tell ya that. I suppose I miss her whiny ass a little bit, but I don't hardly hear from her, or Sandy." Her brows knitted a little as she glanced up at Ella. "You don't know Sandy do you? Soda's ex-girlfriend? Sandy Vincent."

Ella tried to fit a face to the name, but ultimately came up blank. "I don't think so. No." She shook her head. "But I've heard you speak about her. Y'all were friends, right?"

"Yeah," Evie replied, voice almost solemn. "It sucks, you know? Everyone used to be so close and tight knit back then, and by that I mean a year or so ago." She licked her lips. "I guess I just miss the way things used to be, but I'm glad we became friends, too." Her eyes met Ella's. "Hell, you're one of a kind, that's for sure."

And Ella had to grin. "Me, too." Her face fell a little, then. "I mean, I never really had a close group of friends or anything. I never bothered to get friendly with anyone . . . until my senior year. It was odd, you know, but I've always managed to do fine on my own. I guess I've just gotten used to it over the years, and now . . ." She froze, thinking of the fact that Evie and Ponyboy were probably her closest friends, and then there was Mary. (And Bridget and Cathy.) Dallas was her boyfriend of two months, but sometimes, they didn't even act like they were in a relationship. But either way, he had her back, and she knew that—and he had been there for her more times than none. "Well, I made out alright, I guess. I'm surrounded by some awfully great people."

"I bet it's going to be hard for you . . . when you leave for college in a few months."

The older girl's eyes widened for a second, and silence enveloped the room. She hadn't thought about Berkeley since mentioning the acceptance letter to Dallas. Honestly, she didn't know what she was going to do, and the idea of leaving her mother behind almost made her feel guilty. She remembered Evie and Bridget telling her that she had to live her life and do what she wanted, and not let anyone hold her back. But Ella couldn't help herself, and that was one of her vices. She couldn't ever let go and put herself first—she always put everyone and their needs before her own. She had always been like that, though, and for a while, it had just become a routinely cycle, especially where it concerned her mother.

"Ella?"

Her eyes snapped in Evie's direction. "Sorry," she said stupidly. "I was just . . . thinking."

"You're still going to Berkeley, right?" she inquired, and for a second, Ella thought that she sounded a little concerned. "Have you—"

"I don't know," she said, and pursed her lips. "I mean . . ." She made a face, then. "I want to, but at the same time, I don't know what I really want to do, you know?" She sighed. "I have until December to let them know, and even that is last minute notice either way, but I just . . . haven't decided."

Evie cleared her throat almost awkwardly. "Does Dallas know?"

And Ella froze, body tensing. "He does."

* * *

Music blared from the bar, the thundering rhythm filling Tim's ears as he watched the scene play out with lizard eyes. He was doing Dallas a favor, or so he thought, and that gut-wrenching feeling of something not being right danced around his mind and plagued his thoughts. He sucked on his cancer stick, wishing that it was a weed, because the nicotine wasn't doing much for his nerves—not that Tim Shepard was the slightest bit nervous, but he was on edge. Across the circular bar from him was Gentry Knox, and behind him was Dwayne Mitchell and Cody Burns. Tim had only ever seen the two up close once before, and truth be told, Mitchell looked like a hard son-of-a-bitch. His eyes scanned the area, darting around for anyone or anything that might be out of place. But what they didn't know was that Tim (and Dallas) were the reason they were there.

It had been a simple request, getting them to come along. Tim was almost surprised that Dwayne was really that stupid to go along with it, but judging from his glazed over and scrutinizing gaze, he was a little intoxicated. Tim continued to watch the scene unfold, waiting for the action to flare up before he eased his way out of the scene and disappeared into the darkness of the streets. Yeah, it had been too easy, he noted, ridiculously so. Either Gentry Knox was fucking stupid, or Dwayne really had a buzz, and looking at his small time partner, Cody, the idiot didn't know his mouth from his elbow. But all for a loaded deal that could get Dwayne Mitchell out of town had gotten the three of them right where Tim had wanted them, and if he played his cards right, the fuzz would be hot on their trail.

Seated in the game room, Dallas sat aimlessly shuffling a deck of cards, the collar of his jean jacket turned up and concealing the side of his face. But Tim could see the blond's cunning gaze drifting up and peering at the bar every so often, focus on Dwayne more so than anyone else. He was calculating the man's moves, much like Tim was, but Tim wasn't a familiar face to either Dwayne or Cody—not like Dallas was anyway. However, Gentry was a person he was acquainted with, so to keep himself from being noticed, he'd sank below other people sitting around the bar, watching through corner mirrors and the reflection of the windows at every movement of the trio. He sipped at his beer, the bottle tilting as his eyes slithered closed for a second, the liquid running smoothly over his tongue and cooling the back of his throat. He had picked a good spot, a perfect seat to watch the scene play out right before his eyes . . . and he didn't wait long for the action to begin.

Dallas's eyes blazed as sirens blared in the distance, the blue and red lights flashing directly through the windows seconds later. A grim smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he slowly blended into the sea of the crowd gathering around to find out what was going on. Teenagers scrambled to get out of the bar, making a bee line for the back exit. Underage girls who were "working" there scattered toward the back, nearly tripping over each other as they struggled to squeeze through the door. Dallas's gaze had flickered toward the bar, finding Tim in one second, but then he was gone as quickly as the blond had seen him, and he followed the crowd as they dispersed out the back door.

But it was too late.

Gentry Knox had spotted him, and before the teen could process the analytical look in the man's orbs, he was saying something to Dwayne, who had bared his gun, cocking it and beginning to fire. Shrieks filled the room as the shots rang out, the atmosphere seeming to go silent otherwise. Dallas barely made it out the door as some girl fell into him, her gaze meeting his own as she latched onto his arm, the ringing in his ears getting louder and louder. Without thinking, he gripped the girl's arm, his eyes becoming unfocused as he stared at her for only half a second, her blue eyes finding his own as his mind subconsciously replaced her with Ella. She was screaming something at him, something about his shoulder . . . and blood . . . and . . .

Dallas couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. He just jerked the girl out the door, following behind her, the screams from behind him buzzing and merging with the ringing. He could remember the sound of gunshots then, remembered the fuzz surrounding him as he went down under a street light, the yellow hue the last thing he saw before his eyes shut, the sound of the gangs' yelling and their shoes hitting the pavement as they rushed toward his limp body. He should have died . . . he should be dead.

The night air grazed his skin, and then his senses sparked back to life in overdrive, his shoulder starting to throb unmercifully. He ground his teeth as he made his way over to where Tim was, his body concealed between the two buildings on either side of the alley way across the street. His right hand was gripping his shoulder, warm liquid seeping through the material of his jean jacket and moistening his hand. More shots rang out in the distance, and he barely felt Tim's hand grasp his arm to steady him. His jaw was white as it clenched, and he pulled his hand away to inspect the blood that had coated it crimson. Fuck.

"Goddamn," Tim said, brows furrowing. He looked at the wound closer, seeing the grazed skin and scowling. It wasn't life threatening, though. "Bullet must've swiped you," he said, and casually lit a cigarette, handing it off to him. "You'll live."

Dallas blinked, leaning his good side against the exterior of the old drug store, taking the offered cigarette without so much of a nod of gratitude. He inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine flow to his lungs and blacken them even more. He remained quiet, though, his expression only shifting when he saw Cody Burns being led out in handcuffs, Gentry Knox behind him. And then an ambulance arrived, and Dallas waited . . . not expecting to see Dwayne Mitchell being carried out in a body bag.

* * *

The tap on her window startled Ella out of her dreary state. She sat up quickly, her eyes blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness of her room. She glanced at the clock, the hands reading 1:04. With a light groan, she sat up just as the window slid open, the silhouette of Dallas appearing only seconds later as he pulled himself up on the sill, swinging his legs around to climb inside. The cool draft hit her skin almost instantaneously, but she merely sat there, wondering what he wanted coming around so early in the morning like this. Usually, he made his visitations early, and if he stayed, he was usually gone by the time she woke up. Never had he dropped in like this on her . . . well, except for one time, but that was different, completely different, and the thought that Dallas had done something illegal nearly jolted her out of her sleepiness.

"Dally?" she called out, hearing the window slide back into place before the mattress sank beneath his weight. The smell of cigarettes wafted into her nostrils, and she licked her lips, moving so that she could flick on the lamp beside the bed. But Dallas's hand was around her wrist in a flash, and she stilled, trying to see him better in the darkness. "Is everything okay?"

He didn't answer her for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell her what had happened just two hours ago. He turned a little to look at her, even though the only light illuminating her figure was the street light seeping through her front window. He winced a bit as his weight shifted, his shoulder still hurting from where Dwayne's bullet grazed him. Tim was right, though, it wasn't life threatening at all, and he'd done a fine job patching it up. He would have done it himself, but Tim drove him back to his place, practically playing a game of twenty one questions with Curly before the little shit decided that he wasn't going to get anywhere. Besides, neither he or Tim were in the mood to deal with the kid, Dallas's mind focused on what the fuck he would say to Ella. Shit, he rather she hear the news from him rather than be later surprised with it.

He felt her hand brush against his forearm, and for a second, he stiffened at her warm touch. "Dallas," she said, pushing the covers off of herself and moving closer to him. She sounded worried. "What's wrong?"

She made to turn the light on again, but he stopped her, pushing her arm down. "Leave the light off," he told her, his voice low and cold. He could feel her burning a hole into the side of his head, and he wanted a cigarette badly. But now wasn't the time. "You need to listen to me, Ella. It's important." And even though neither one of them could see the other clearly, his eyes pierced into her own. "It's about your old man."

The girl's chest tightened at once, her gaze lowering to the mattress. She had a feeling that Dallas had went after him and something had happened, something ghastly that she didn't even want to consider, and her breath hitched inside her throat as all of the different possibilities swarmed around her mind, her hands becoming clammy as she waited for him to continue.

"He's dead."

The words took a moment to process, and Ella went cold. A million questions went through her mind at once, but the one emotion that was taking over was innate devastation. Her father didn't deserve a thing from her, but she couldn't help it, and for a minute or so, she refused to believe Dallas. It couldn't be true, could it? Was Dwayne really dead? And how did Dallas know? Had Dwayne tried something with him? Was he really alive and waiting to strike? Her heart was beginning to pound rapidly against her rib cage, pupils enlarging as she finally digested the information. Oh, God.

". . . How?" Her voice was shaky in comparison to Dallas's, which was apathetic and unfeeling. She wondered how he could be so lifeless, so dull, so much that he couldn't feel anything. "Dallas."

The blond bit the inside of his cheek, nostrils flaring as he spoke. "Cops shot him at a bar downtown after he snapped." He breathed in hardly through his nose. "I don't know, he apparently pulled his gun out and started shooting, went fucking crazy or somethin'." Glory, he really needed a weed. Fuck. "But the cops shot him, killed him."

". . . Was anyone hurt?"

Dallas ground his teeth, remembering what he'd heard. Shit, this was gonna be one helluva story by mid-morning. But he was there, he had witnessed the entire thing. In fact, it was his idea to get Dwayne caught, even though he'd never meant for the guy to go bat-shit crazy and shoot the place up. Jesus Christ. He had seen plenty of shit in the slums of New York, he could handle it, but Ella? He could handle the sinking feeling and drowning, but not Ella. She would drown in a fucking pond. His fingers were twitching, his knee beginning to bounce. He needed something to take his mind off of it, to remove those memories of that woman clinging onto him, her face morphing into Ella's, and the sound of those blasted gunshots. For Pete's sake.

His answer came through clenched teeth. "One person died. Four were injured."

Ella was still, absolutely still. The only sound coming from her was her shallow breathing, and Dallas turned a little more, eyeing her carefully. He had never seen her so perturbed before, and quite frankly, that unnerved him even more than her behavior a few nights back, when she pleaded with him to stay, to not leave and go after Dwayne. But he had, albeit indirectly, and now the man was dead, Gentry and Cody in custody. Jesus Christ. He shook his head, and without asking for permission, he reached onto Ella's nightstand and grabbed a cigarette, cursing it for not being a Kool, before lighting up. Hell, he was sure if he sat there pondering last night's events he would go through a whole carton or two of cigarettes, not that he gave a shit.

"I—" Ella was shaking, her body cold. Her hand gripped the edge of the mattress to steady herself, one lone tear slipping from her eye. He didn't deserve her sympathy, she thought, but it didn't stop another tear from falling. "I—"

Dallas gripped her arms, wincing slightly from the pain in his shoulder, turning her so that she was facing him again. "Hey," he said gruffly, eyes hard. "Get yourself together, huh?" His teeth rubbed together as he pulled her closer. "It's gonna be fine, it'll all work out. Relax, will you?"

But she only leaned against him, her forehead resting on the space between his neck and shoulder, the feeling of the gauze beneath his shirt rubbing against her skin. She felt him tense a bit, and with a worried expression, she reached up and brushed her hand against the bandage. Her eyes widened even more, and then two and two clicked together as his words replayed in her mind from just minutes earlier. _One person died. Four were injured._ And then she knew, but she was too tired to argue or . . . do anything, really.

"You," she said, letting out a dry sob. "You . . . were there." Her fingers curled around his heated skin, gripping tightly in agony. "He— He—"

"Stop talkin'," he said, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Just shut up." He pulled her back so that her face was pressed against his skin again, the warmth of her body seeming to radiate into his insides where he needed it most. His arm stayed relaxed, but his hand was wrapped around the small of her back as both of her arms enveloped him. She was dry sobbing, no tears falling from her eyes and moistening his clothing, or him. His face was stony and rigid in the darkness. "You'll be fine."

Ella didn't know what to think, or what to believe. She didn't know if she would be okay, didn't know if she was just simply having one obnoxious nightmare, or what. All she felt was confused, lost, and oddly depressed, her eyes closing as she counted her breaths, her skin flush against Dallas's as she attempted to concentrate on his breathing and the feeling of his heart beating opposite of her own.

 _Oh we don't know the roads that we're heading down  
_

 _We don't know if we're lost, that we'll find a way_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the enthusiasm for this story, y'all! It's very much appreciated! :3**


	26. Lie To Me

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lumineers own "White Lie."**

* * *

 _If we can make it through another day  
_

 _With you believing in my innocence  
_

 _And we can make it through another year  
_

 _'Cause we both need it to forget this fear_

 **October 30, 1966**

Ponyboy glanced at Ella warily. She had been mighty quiet when they first met up to go to the movie house, and she became exceedingly more so afterward. He understood, really he did, but he missed talking to the girl, and more than that, he missed his friend. He and Ella hadn't spent a whole lot of time together, especially with all the hours she was working, and him being in school. Things had been rough for both of them, and ever since Ella and Dally had become a couple, Ella occupied herself with nothing but the rugged hood and working herself gray. A week ago, Ella had lost her father, and nobody had really heard from her, not even Evie, who was growing very concerned.

On the other hand, Ponyboy sympathized. He knew what it was like to lose a parent, and even though Dwayne Mitchell hadn't been anything to Ella, he knew how she felt. He had told Evie that Ella just needed time, and while the brunette didn't quite fathom how Ella could even feel bad over Dwayne's death, Ponyboy simply let it go. He knew that Ella would come around on her own—she was a pretty tough girl, even if she didn't always show it. But Dallas . . . he hadn't been showing his face around, either, and with the rumors going around that circulated Dwayne's death, Ponyboy, like the rest of the guys, figured that he was avoiding attention, especially where it concerned Ella.

Still, Ella had attended her father's makeshift funeral earlier that morning, and Ponyboy, ever the loyal friend, had gone with her. It was against his better judgment, paying his respects to a man who wasn't worth the dirt on the bottom of a shoe, but Ella was his friend, and regardless of how he felt about her father, he had accompanied her. There hadn't been a lot of people there, for Dwayne wasn't a liked man, but there had been a few. Ella and Ponyboy stuck out among them, but they remained in the back of the small crowd, the majority being rouge cowboys and the like. Ella didn't let on that she was the daughter of Dwayne Mitchell, which Ponyboy figured was for the better.

Once Dwayne was lowered into the ground, they had left, not looking back once. Ponyboy had made a suggestion that they go see a movie, hoping that it would take Ella's mind off of the events that had been plaguing her thoughts for a week now. She, though somewhat reluctant, had agreed to go along with him, and Ponyboy was actually glad that she had.

"You okay?" he decided to ask, hands slipping into his pockets.

Ella nodded, her face still solemn. "Yeah."

She went silent again after that, and truthfully, Ponyboy wasn't sure what to say. He remembered how he felt losing both of his parents nearly two years ago, but there was a big difference between his parents and Ella's father. He could understand Ella being upset over losing Dwayne, but what he couldn't piece together was why she would mourn him. After hearing the gossip about Dwayne Mitchell and the things he had done, Ponyboy was surprised that Ella would even bother to associate herself with him. Glory.

Ella took a deep breath. "I know it must seem silly to you," she said, seeming to speak his thoughts, her eyes drifting in his direction. "I know I shouldn't care, but . . ."

"You do," he finished, tilting his chin to look at her. "I get it."

She released a chuckle, though it wasn't meant to be humorous. "I don't." Her lips pursed for a moment, a distant expression blanketing her face. "Sometimes, I wish I could have understood him, but in some ways, I'm glad I didn't."

Ponyboy nodded, but he didn't respond to that. It was best to let Ella sort her thoughts out on her own; it was better that way. He was afraid of saying the wrong thing anyway, for Ella had been on edge ever since the incident. From what he had heard, Dallas had been the one to tell her, and though Ponyboy himself didn't really know what had taken place that night, he had a pretty good feeling what did transpire, and he was solid in his belief that Ella did, too, but whether she would admit that or not, he didn't know.

Meanwhile, Ella had been conflicted with herself and her own feelings regarding the situation. Ever since Dallas had told her that her father was dead, she had been in a minor state of shock. It wasn't until she had relayed the information to her mother that it had fully set in. She didn't think it would affect her this much, and truthfully, she didn't know why she was even giving Dwayne Mitchell a second thought. After all, he had basically told her that he didn't want anything to do with her—he didn't even want to accept the fact that she was his child, his own flesh and blood, publicly denying her as such. It was as if Dwayne had only existed in her life for a few weeks before vanishing, and sometimes, Ella found herself wondering if any of it had even happened at all.

Perhaps, if she told herself it was all a lie, she wouldn't have to believe any of it. Yeah, that sounded good, she thought, shaking her head at the thought. Golly, but the news had hit her mother hard, and Ella was surprised to see the woman looking so stunned. For the longest time, Frances Mitchell had claimed to despise Dwayne Mitchell, or at least, act like she did, and for the very first time, Ella had to wonder if her mother's blatant act was really just that—an act. She wasn't sure, and she was certain that she would never have the answers, but she was actually okay with that.

Ponyboy's voice broke through her thoughts. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?" he inquired, giving her a look that reflected concern. "You know, if—"

"It's okay," she answered quickly, fingers twiddling around in her jacket pockets. And then her gaze met his own. " _I'm_ okay." Hell, she didn't know whether or not she was assuring herself or him. "I do appreciate your concern, Ponyboy, but . . . everything's going to be fine."

He stared at her for a moment. "Sure." And then he reached up, placing a hand on her shoulder lightly, a serious look in his eyes. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate. I mean that." At her nod, he gave her a small smile. "I'll walk you home."

As they started walking, Ella felt blessed that she had a friend like Ponyboy. She knew that he meant well, and that he was genuine, and she wondered how she had been fortunate enough to gain a true friendship like his. Hell, people like him were rare, but then again, she supposed each of them were rare in one way or the other.

* * *

Dallas stared down at the page before him, the words glaring back at him and burning his insides. He felt internally hot, his blood boiling thickly beneath the surface and threatening to cause his rage to bubble out. He was livid. He wanted to lash out, or something. Anything. He knew he shouldn't have bothered with the fucking book—the entire thing had been a headache. Ponyboy. He wanted to beat the shit out of that kid, pummel him. But he couldn't. Hell, he knew he couldn't. It wasn't enough to ease his conscious, though. Dallas couldn't fathom why in the hell Ponyboy had killed him off in his story, the story that he, Johnny Cade, and Ponyboy all played a massive role in, the events that had reshaped the gang. It didn't make sense to him, and he wanted nothing more than to light the fucking book on fire, get rid of it, or whatever-the-fuck-else. He never wanted to see it again. Even more than that, he was never going to finish the damn thing. The hell with it.

Reaching for his cigarettes and lighter, the blond drew in a breath and lit one, resting his head back against the side wall as he closed his eyes for a moment. Shit. He could remember that night so clearly now, as if the book had suddenly ignited a spark in his mind, one he had been desperately trying to keep snuffed and forgotten altogether. But the memories were swishing around, and with the story so fresh in his mind, there was no way to rid himself of them.

Oh, blast it, he thought bitterly. Hell, he didn't want to remember, but he couldn't help it. Dallas felt as if he was slipping back to that night one year ago. He could visualize the street light in his mind almost perfectly, the dim hue fading as he fell to the ground, his body half jerked from the impact of the bullets that impaled his flesh. He remembered feeling everything and nothing at once, the blackened sky overhead, his thoughts clouded with how much he wanted to die. For Pete's sake, he had just wanted to die, to forget everything, to never have to think of what a fuck up he was. Hell, it was his goddamn fault, sending Johnny and Ponyboy to that church, for—

His fist banged against the headboard, teeth grinding together so hardly, they might have cracked. His eyes were squeezed tightly, lips curled back as a look of sheer anguish took over his features. His fingers tightened into fists, toes curling back as rage shook his body. And then with a sudden jerk, Dallas jolted around and rammed his fist into the wall. And he did it again and again until his knuckles split, the sheetrock busting beneath the impact of his hits.

When he'd had enough, he whipped back around, face stark red, as he stubbed his cigarette and threw an empty whiskey bottle across the room, the sound of the glass breaking almost silent to his ears. He needed something to release his anger on, or rather, someone he could fight. It didn't matter at this fucking point. Either that, or he wanted to get fucking wasted. He had tried so hard to forget that week thirteen months ago. He never wanted to think about it, or Johnny . . . or anything. And now that he had read Ponyboy's book, he felt nothing but pure anger. He should have died a year ago, he told himself, he shouldn't be here, but buried six feet below, along with Johnny.

Son-of-a-bitch.

He needed a drink.

With icy blue orbs full of innate vexation, Dallas ripped the door open and angrily marched down the hall, making his way down the stairs to the bar area in search of something that would surely make him forget his afternoon. Hell, maybe he would blow off some steam in a fight later on and call it a fucking day. He shook his head, lips pressing together firmly as he wondered why in the hell Ponyboy wanted to publish that fucking book.

* * *

It was a rarity when Darrel Curtis Jr. would head out for a drink, but this particular night, he found himself in need of something to take the edge off. It had been one hell of a week, that was for certain, and usually, Darry wasn't one to let anything get under his skin, being the most practical and level-headed of the bunch, but there were times when the twenty-one year old needed an escape, too. Well, that, and he wanted to feel like his own age for once, not some forty something year old with aching bones and joints who was too tired to have some fun every once in a while.

Now, Darry also wasn't the type to hang out at Buck Merril's roadhouse, not one for the type of action that carried on there, but he needed a different type of scenery, and he figured that there wasn't any place better where he could get real cheap booze and maybe find a cheap gal to help him forget his worries for a while. Besides, that was what Buck's was noted for—all of the road whores and washed up old cowboys looking for a place to lay over. Hell, Darry wasn't sure how in the hell Dallas could sleep in a dump like Buck's, but he could only assume that it might as well have been decent compared to the other places he'd spent his nights before.

The dark-haired man shook his head, tilting his chin back as he brought his half finished beer to his lips, the liquid settling on his tongue for a second before cooling his throat. He thought about his kid brothers for a moment—one was on his way to becoming a published author, and the other was head over heels in love with a girl who was just as in love with him as he was with her, and he worked two jobs to help with the bills. And Darry? Well, he was busy working himself gray with no time to himself, and Lord help him, but he was scared to think of what would become of all of them in the future. Well, it wasn't so much as _them_ he was concerned with, but himself. What would happen once Ponyboy graduated?

Darry set his bottle on the counter top, rubbing a hand over his head. Hell, he had come out to forget his problems, not think about them. Glory, but wasn't there ever going to be a minute where he could get some peace from his own overactive mind?

"Darrel Curtis," a stern voice called out, causing him to turn to his side. His gaze fixed on none other than Tim Shepard, the teen cocking an eyebrow at him in return. "I thought that was you," he continued on, nodding once to him. "Come to forget your troubles?"

The older boy looked him over. "Something like that."

Tim took a seat on the stool beside him. He leaned forward, arms resting on the edge of the counter as he stared straight ahead for a moment. He hadn't spoke to Darry in quite some time, well, at least not as buddies. But there was a time when the two of them had gotten along better, not that they had ever really stopped, but life got in the way and truthfully, they led two very different lives. There had always been a mutual respect, though, an understanding between them, and both boys knew that they could always rely on the other if they needed to.

Darry sighed, his shoulders sloping just a little. "How've you been, Tim?"

The black-haired hood shrugged. "Can't complain, Curtis. Nobody listens anyway." The corner of his mouth turned up. "Surprised to find you here, though."

"Yeah," came the cool response. "I'm surprised to see me here, too."

Tim chuckled, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. He looked Darry over, taking in the frown on his lips and the distant look in his glacier orbs. There were faint lines at the corner of his eyes, and even smaller ones beginning to appear at the sides of his mouth, as if he never grinned. Yeah, Darrel Curtis Jr. was bound to be gray before he was thirty if he kept this shit up. Tim had always been rather fond of the oldest Curtis sibling; they had grown up together, only being two years apart in age and grade. Tim could remember going to grade school and high school with him, but those memories seemed as if they were forever ago now—almost as if they'd never even happened. Funny how things went like that, but that's just the way they were, Tim supposed.

"How's your brother doin'?" he decided to ask, mostly just to be civil. "Not the goofy one, the one with the book."

Darry cocked an eyebrow, surprised that Tim Shepard would bother to inquire. "He's doing fine," he answered, cracking another beer open. "Still hasn't talked to his publisher yet."

"Cold feet?"

The older boy shook his head. "He still hasn't gotten Dallas's consent yet." He made a face. "He gave him the book to read a while ago, but Dallas hasn't gotten back to him about it."

Tim didn't miss the annoyed tone of Darry's voice. Hell, he hadn't read the book, but thinking about it, it did sound interesting. From what the kid had relayed to him, the story was all about the events that had taken place . . . what was it? A year ago now? Shit, he couldn't exactly remember, but he did know it had to do with their friend—the black-haired one—that died after saving some kids from a fire, or whatever. Oh, and that kid he knifed. Jesus, Tim thought, but ol' Dally must have been taking things mighty hard if he had decided to read the damn thing. And then Tim nearly chuckled at the thought of Dallas Winston so much as reading a book. Damn.

"How long would you reckon is a while?"

Darry's eyes met his. "Nearly four months, at least."

Tim let out a low whistle. "Well, Winston ain't much of a reader." At Darry's smirk, he continued. "I could run it by him, you know, ask him what's up."

"Sure," came the response. "Appreciate it."

The teen merely nodded. Usually, he wouldn't bother with anything like this, but he respected Darry, and besides, he hadn't seen Winston since the night Dwayne Mitchell was killed. He'd heard that the blond-headed hood was keeping himself pretty busy, but that wasn't an issue for Tim. He and Dally were two of a kind, and he'd track him down and inquire on what was up. It wasn't even that he really cared so much about the little Curtis's book, but . . . he was concerned about Dallas. Hell, he had a feeling it had something to do with that book, too, and not just Mitchell's death; the only reason Dallas would even bother himself with that shit was because of the broad he was dating. Dallas wasn't the type to feel sorry or act sentimental, Tim knew, so he easily put two and two together.

He made a mental note to pay Winston a visit that week, see what he could find out. And with that thought in mind, he nodded once to Darry, sticking his hand out for him to shake as he spotted his date for the night entering the bar area.

"Good talkin' to you, Curtis," he said, and the two shook hands. "See you around."

* * *

Ella felt sick, her body consumed with alcohol, the contents resting heavily on her stomach. She wasn't sure why in the hell she had decided to go to Buck's in the first place, but she had. Realistically, she really just wanted to forget everything that had taken place in the last few weeks, forget that Dwayne Mitchell had been a part of her life. He had abandoned her and her mother years ago, and she didn't understand why she felt so . . . so angry at herself. Or was she angry at him? Talking to her mother about the issue was a no go, so Ella didn't bother to ask the woman. Oh, she had seen the absent look in her eyes, though, the deep bend on her mouth when she had relayed to her about Dwayne, how he had died after what he'd done. Ella still couldn't fathom it, and she knew, oh she knew, that Dallas had been involved. But now she didn't care to know the details, didn't want to know anything. The fact remained either way—her father was dead, and she would never know the real him. Or had that been the real him all along? She wanted to tell herself that it wasn't, that deep down Dwayne had once been a good man, like . . . like how she could almost see Dallas.

A sick feeling enveloped her for a moment, one which she shook off almost instantly. Ella just wanted to let bygones by bygones, she didn't want to think about Dwayne anymore. But she couldn't help herself any way that she went, and when she had gone to the Slash J a few days back, seeing Gentry Knox sitting on the porch, she had the sudden urge to speak to the man. But she couldn't bring herself to do so. The rumors that were sailing around were enough to keep her away, and though nobody had directly pieced together that Ella was the daughter of a con-artist, she had bitterly remained in the spotlight to her friends. Ponyboy, Evie, Mary, and Dallas all knew the truth, and the fact that they did, also knowing what had happened, made her feel green.

She sipped at her drink leisurely, her limbs feeling awfully relaxed. Glory, but she had done nothing but throw herself into her work, avoiding everyone as much as possible. The week had droned on, and Ella barely paid attention to anything that was happening in the outside world. She had drowned herself in her thoughts, investing all of her time into working at the laundromat twelve hours a day, and then staying inside all day Saturday. She hadn't heard from Dallas once, and truthfully, she had a feeling as to why. She knew he was intentionally staying away from her, and she had a feeling as to why he was. But, golly, she just . . . she couldn't care. She just couldn't bring herself to care about him being there, in the same place at the same time, her father had died. It was cruel, it was harsh, she knew, but . . .

Oh, blast it, she thought miserably. Her eyes burned into her cup of . . . whatever she was drinking, her body feeling overly warm. How much had she consumed? Hell, she didn't know, and quite frankly, she didn't care, either, and with a blank expression, she downed the rest of it in one gulp, shoving her thoughts away for the evening.

She had seen Darry Curtis a little earlier. He had looked just as miserable as she had, his face twisted up with a look that said it all. She knew the feeling, maybe not in the same way, but there was a very mutual understanding. When she spotted him, though, her thoughts had drifted toward Ponyboy, and she had felt a little guilty with her treatment of him earlier that day. Golly, but she sure felt dramatic, and she longed for the beginning of Summer, when things were somewhat okay, when she wasn't so terribly on edge.

She watched Tim Shepard speak to Darry for a few measly minutes, but she paid them no mind, instead continuing to down one drink after the other. She saw Tim leave with a pretty date, and then Darry had taken his leave minutes later. Ella was honestly surprised that neither one of them had spotted her sitting by her lonesome, but she was okay with that.

Her thoughts, however, were interrupted when a pair of arms slithered around her frame, trapping her between them. She instantly jerked to the side, eyes landing on the one person she had been secretly aching to see, her breath getting hitched in her throat. Dallas's eyes bore into her own, a similar look reflected in them that she was certain rested in hers.

"Hey, sweets," he said casually, but he didn't smirk at her or anything. Instead, the sound of his voice was low and monotone, and Ella could smell the liquor on his breath. "Didn't expect to see you here," he continued, eyeing her empty glasses with a curiously raised brow.

Ella shrugged him off. "I didn't expect to be here."

Dallas pulled away. "Been keeping yourself busy, I hear."

She pursed her lips a little, telling herself that she didn't want to see him. At times, it didn't even feel so much like they were in a relationship, because they sure didn't act it. In the beginning, things had been fun and exciting, and now, Ella hardly knew what those words meant. She needed something, though, she needed to make herself forget everything just for a while.

"So have you."

"Somethin' like that," he replied, and reached for her half-finished beer. "So what brought you here?"

Ella rolled her eyes, sighing as she rested her head in the palm of her hand. "I just—" She paused, her eyes blinking slowly, lethargically. "I don't know." And really, she didn't. Not really, at least. But Dallas's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his stare firm as he gave her a measured look. And Ella blinked almost lazily. "I think I needed to get away."

She wasn't going to tell him that she had been looking for him. Usually, Dallas always came to her, whether it be by sneaking through her window late at night, or visiting her at her job. She had never came directly to him before . . . until this moment, and now that they were face to face again, she couldn't bring herself to admit it, that she had come seeking him out, because she needed him. Hell, she did, but she wasn't going to tell him that and boost his ego even more. But Ella was tired, too, her body wary with everything that had taken place in the past few weeks.

"You want to stay?" Dallas questioned, sounding almost casual. His gaze hadn't shifted from her face, but he seemed to be studying her now, calculating her movements.

Ella's brows shifted closer together as she considered it. "I have work in the—"

"Call out," he immediately said, tone suddenly stern. "Take a fucking sick day or whatever." He watched her as she seemed to contemplate what to do, and his thigh brushed against hers as he moved beside her. When she didn't respond quick enough, he rolled his eyes, clearly impatient. "Look, I'm going up. I don't have time for—"

But Ella grabbed his arm, eyes meeting his. "I want to stay."

The blond blinked, but ultimately pulled her to her feet. It was a very sudden decision, one clearly based on impulse, but right then, Ella didn't care. She just didn't care anymore. It was probably wrong to not give her mother some courtesy by letting her know that she was staying out the entire night, but then again, Frances had been basically telling her to let loose and do something with herself, so here she was, finally doing just that. But it wasn't out of fun or anything like that, but rather a terrible desperation, the need to feel something other than what she had been.

Ella let Dallas lead her up the stairs to his room, her legs a little weak. His arm was like a vice around her waist, though, preventing her from tripping or falling. The chaos from the bar became background noise as she entered Dallas's room, the sound of the door closing behind them seeming to drown it out the rest of the way. Ella kicked her shoes off, taking a seat on the bed before moving back and laying down altogether. She could smell Dallas's scent on the pillows and blanket, and it easily calmed her, her eyes flickering closed for a moment.

Meanwhile, Dallas cracked the window a little as he lit up a cigarette, letting the nicotine calm his nerves a bit. He hadn't been expecting to run into Ella, but now that he had—and now that she was there in his room with him—he was oddly relaxed. He hadn't done a very good job of drinking his problems away earlier that afternoon, but he had found Paul Hopkins drunk off his ass and had given him one helluva whipping. It was just too easy to get that asshole riled up, which is exactly what Dallas had done, before finally taking his anger out on the dumbass. Besides, even though Steve had settled the issue with that prick a while back, Dallas still harbored some anger for him, and kicking his ass into the dirt was exactly what he needed to make himself feel better. But then running into Ella had almost diminished his mood, and only when she agreed to stay did it spark back up. He hadn't seen her in a week, but he'd also been staying low until things cooled off with Dwayne Mitchell. Hell, it wasn't like anyone would miss the poor bastard, but the problem rested with Ella.

Dallas wasn't stupid, and he knew that his girlfriend was considering his involvement, not that he had wanted Dwayne to get killed, but that wasn't the point. Ella had heard the gossip, had read the damn story in the paper, so she knew what had happened, and she was smart—she would put two and two together. Surprisingly, though, she hadn't come off as mad with him, but rather with herself, and Dally figured that she was half blaming herself because she had visited Dwayne first—like it was her fucking fault. Still, Dallas wasn't good with this kind of shit, and he wasn't going to play like he was. Ella would get over it and herself in time, and that was all there was to it.

He licked his lips, turning to face her as he passed her the cigarette. But she shook her head, eyes landing on his as she asked for something stronger, something that would relax her. The blond teen was momentarily stunned, but with a cocked brow, he shifted away from her to get his stash. Dallas had never been too big on smoking weed, although he had done it a lot more frequently in his early teens, but he still kept some around to ease his mind and relax his body. He easily rolled a joint while sucking on the cigarette, and handed it off to Ella with a half smirk.

Ella merely stared at it for a moment, contemplating her next move, and then with a shake of her head, she grabbed the lighter and lit it, closing her eyes as she inhaled. The smoke wafted out of her mouth slowly as she eased her head back into the pillow, her breathing evening out as she did. Dallas stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, reaching over for the joint and taking a hit before passing it back to her. Ella's eyes were on his, lids slit like a lizard's, and she blinked once.

She took another drag, and then passed it back to him.

They barely spoke to each other while they smoked, but the effect it had on Ella was exactly what she had been looking for. The room had been awfully silent, save for their breathing, and only when Ella's voice broke the thinning tension between them did either of them officially react toward each other's presence.

"Dallas," she said, voice calm and low. Her pupils were enlarged and dilated as she looked at him with a glazed over expression. "I should've listened to you . . . in the beginning."

The blond licked his lips, shaking his head. "Forget it, Ella." He breathed in, turning away from her, not in the mood for this conversation. "Ain't your fault what happened anyway."

But Ella continued on, oblivious to the fact that Dallas didn't care. "I suppose I should, but—" She paused for only a moment. "He used to be dead to me, or . . . well, it was easier to pretend that way as a kid." Silence. "I used to actually tell people that when they asked about him, because it was easier to say, but now . . ." There was another pause, and Ella frowned. "I guess it just feels different, because it's real . . . really real."

And when he turned to respond to her, tell her to shut up and let it go, he was surprised when her hand closed around his arm, tugging him forward. He took one look at her facial expression, the desperate look in her darkened eyes, and silently obliged her wishes. The gasp that escaped her mouth as his weight moved over her was more like a breathy moan, and then their lips were pressed together in a heated kiss. She didn't stop him when his mouth trailed down her neck, or when his hands moved up and down her body. She merely pressed herself closer to him, fingers curling through his blond locks, a silent plead for him to stay.

Dallas's fingers worked the buttons of her blouse with ease, shimmying it down her arms and discarding it along with her bra. Ella's eyes were squeezed shut, a small crease in her forehead as Dallas's mouth moved across her skin, her hands gripping his arms. He only pulled away for a few seconds to toss his own shirt aside, and when their bodies pressed together, Ella's eyes nearly shot open, lips parting as she trembled a little. But Dallas had picked up where he left off, the heat of his mouth moving down her neck and chest, across her soft mounds, and south. He only stopped when he felt her stiffen, eyes broad with wonderment and concern.

"You want to stop?" he asked, voice gruff and husky.

Ella's breathing hitched. "I—" Her lips parted as she attempted to draw in a shaky breath, gaze meeting his. "Dallas."

She wasn't ready.

He was still for a moment, but he understood. "Got it, sweets," he murmured, trying to keep his tone somewhat level. He shifted, moving up to press his lips against hers. There were other ways he could make her forget and feel good. His thumb stroked the area beneath her belly button, eyes intent on hers as he slowly let his hand drift lower, hovering just at the band of her skirt. "This okay?"

Ella bit her lip, but nodded, and that was all the invitation Dallas needed as his fingers dipped down, Ella's breath fanning against his face as his mouth worked her neck.

And in that moment, she had forgotten everything else, her mind filled with innate bliss for the time being.

 _If it's all the same to you  
_

 _Then it's just a little white lie  
_

 _Then it's all the same to me  
_

 _And it's just a little white lie_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	27. Like Hell

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Head and the Heart own "Rivers and Roads."**

* * *

 _Nothing is as it has been  
_

 _And I miss your face like hell_

 **November 2, 1966**

Dallas was seated in the truck, a hard look on his face as he waited for Ponyboy. The kid didn't know that he was out there with plans of driving him to school, but Dallas wanted to talk to him, and he had intentionally waited to cool off a little before he did so. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. His icy eyes gazed around the scenery of the Curtis household, lids slitting a bit at the light frost coating the windows. Hell, it was awfully cold out, the air biting, and the blond's nose scrunched at the thought of it. The weather had shifted dramatically in the last few days, the air seeming to be a lot colder than usual. Glory, but Dallas could remember when it was just hot and humid out, his skin tinged a faint red from the intensity of the sun.

With an impatient sigh, he honked the horn, searching for any sign of the red-headed fifteen year old he was waiting for. Jesus Christ, but he should have been out by now, Dallas assumed, glancing once at the clock. Yeah, he was going to be late if he took any longer. Blast it, he thought, pursing his lips, it wasn't like he was in a rush—he just wanted to have a little chat with Ponyboy about his fucking book, the very thing that hadn't left his mind since he'd finished that one paragraph regarding his "death."

The thought of that alone caused a jolt of rage to surge through his veins, and before he could comprehend what he was doing, his hand leered back, curling into a fist, before he brought it forward and hit the dash. Goddamn it. He didn't want to think about it anymore, he just wanted to forget about it, but no matter how hard he tried, the damn book wouldn't leave him alone, and the reminder of Johnny Cade in that blasted hospital nagged at the forefront of his mind—and he found that he was unable to escape the torment of his own memories.

A knock on the window startled the hood, but he played it cool as he shot a glare at Ponyboy. "Get in," he ordered almost casually, even though there was a snip in his words.

Ponyboy merely raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. He didn't say anything as he climbed into the truck beside Dallas, but his expression was wary, as if he didn't trust him. Dallas didn't have any plans of attacking the kid—he'd rather not get into with Darrel Jr, but that was besides the point. He just had some questions, questions that he was going to get the answers to. Hell, he wouldn't admit that it was . . . bothering him, the fact that Ponyboy had killed him off. Actually, what annoyed him more than anything was that he was still alive, still living in this fucked up world when he should have been six feet under. Yeah, that's where he belonged, where he wanted to be, and just reading his own "death" scene only stirred up feelings inside of him that he thought were long gone.

Ponyboy's green eyes fell on him. "Didn't expect to see you here. You should have came inside. Darry made pancakes this morning."

The older teen made a sound like a grunt. "I wanted to talk to you, kid."

"What about?"

And there it was, that innocent question that made Dallas grind his teeth. Hell, he wasn't even sure how to address the issue itself. At first, he really just wanted to light into Ponyboy, express how fucking pissed off he was, maybe knock his block off, but now . . . Well, there were a lot things that he wanted to do, but the biggest question still remained, along with the fact that Dallas himself was still livid. He shook his head, throwing the truck in drive, and took off down the road as he collected his thoughts.

"That book you wrote," he began, brows furrowing. A pause. "When do you have to talk to this . . . publisher guy?"

Ponyboy's eyes seemed to broaden a little. "Well, I have until the end of December to make a decision of publishing it or not. It's part of my contract."

Dallas hummed, an irritated look on his face. He'd had a run-in with Tim Shepard the other day, the older teen going on about him reading the kid's book and giving consent so that he could publish it, and whatever-the-fuck-else. Dallas hadn't really cared at that particular moment, too absorbed in drinking himself three sheets to the wind to try and forget his own problems, the fucking book being one of them, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. But there were other things he had been concerning himself with, like his girlfriend, for one. Ever since she had let him go that far with her, let him penetrate her with one or two digits, she had been acting . . . different. It wasn't in a bad way, so to speak, but she had been more independent, in a sense. But she allowed him to touch her more, explore her body a little more thoroughly, but she wouldn't allow him to go all the way. Hell, she had been so nervous to even touch him or do anything to him that Dallas thought she might pass out from just how much she was. But Ella wasn't his only problem, not that she was a problem, but since their relationship had reached a new level, he was more ambitious.

On the other hand, Ponyboy's book was something that had been irking him since he had first found out about it. He could give the kid some credit, though—he could fucking write, that was a fact. But Jesus Christ . . . he didn't understand why the fuck he wanted to publish a story about them, their gang, their world . . . their lives. For Christ's sake, all it would do was make people feel sorry for them, to look at them pitifully, as if their lives were so terrible and corrupt. Dallas wasn't a pussy, and he didn't want anyone's pity, and he sure as hell didn't want that for Johnny, either.

"Well, I ain't sure how I feel about, kid," came the gruff response, and Ponyboy jerked around to face him, a baffled look on his face. "You tell people too much, and you let them in. When you let people in like that, you create a recipe for disaster." His eyes narrowed a little. "I don't know what you think that you're trying to prove with this book, Pony, but—" His jaw clenched. "You made me look like a blasted pansy, kid, with that stunt you pulled." He eyed him carefully, menacingly. "Do I look dead to you?"

Ponyboy shook his head. "That ain't what it's like, Dally."

"Sure looked it to me," came the hard response. "What? You think I'm illiterate or something?"

"No," came the clipped response. And Ponyboy was staring at him firmly. He knew that the older teen would most likely take the turned events hardly, and hell, he expected him to lash out, but what he couldn't understand was what he was trying to say. Did Dallas think that he was concocting all of this as a means to bring unwanted attention to greasers or something? A sigh fell from his mouth as he brought a hand up to his forehead. "Did you read the ending, Dal?"

"Don't matter," he replied coolly. "You'd better change some shit around in that book of yours if you think I'll consent to letting you use my name." His eye twitched. "If you wanted me dead so badly, y'all could have just let me die on the fucking pavement under the street light." His hand was flexing around the steering wheel, and Ponyboy was internally grateful that they were at the high school. "It would have saved a lot of trouble, kid."

Ponyboy's eyes went stark wide at the last comment, but Dallas was already telling him to get the hell out, and there was no time to ask him what he had meant.

* * *

Ella was sitting in the waiting room, anxiously waiting for her mother to return. Frances was having another screening for her cancer, and Ella wasn't allowed to accompany her inside. The girl was quite nervous, her fingers twiddling in her lap as she considered the outcome of her mother's results. So far, she had been doing well on her medication, but they both knew that it wouldn't clear her diagnosis—that was impossible. No, the medicine only acted as a pain reliever, so that Frances could get back to a normal life and back to work. It would sound crazy, but Frances enjoyed keeping herself busy, and even though she wasn't a fan of working at the bar downtown, she did enjoy her shifts at the antique shop during the day. She had worked there for several years and didn't look at it as work, because she honestly enjoyed it too much.

But Ella still felt terribly unsure. She didn't want to think of all the negative possibilities, but even though Dr. Andrews had seemed positive a few months back, Ella couldn't help but worry. She couldn't imagine a life without her mother in it. She wondered what things would be like in a year from then; would they be different? Where would she be? Dallas? Her heart leaped in her chest as she thought about her rugged, white-haired devilish boyfriend. Things had become . . . intimate between them, and although Ella was still nervous about going too far, she was also afraid to admit that she . . . wanted to.

She licked her lips, considering Dallas. What would he think of her if she decided to let him have her? Would he still want her? Glory, but her cheeks were tinting red just thinking about it, but the fact still remained that she had let him . . . do more than touch her or feel her up the other night, and then the other night after that. Her thighs squeezed as she remembered his face as his hand and fingers worked her over, and then she remembered the other night . . . how he had pushed her skirt up her thighs as he shoved her back against her bedroom wall, him dropping to his knees as his face maneuvered between her legs . . .

She had let him do that to her. She would be lying if she said she hadn't enjoyed every moment of it, every heated second that past between them, and golly, but it was all new to her. A year ago she would have never thought she would be here, with Dallas, one step away from going all the way with him. It was flabbergasting. And the fact that she, too, had touched him, felt him . . . A part of her felt dirty that she had done it, but there was another secret part of her that had liked it—she liked that she was able to make Dallas Winston weak like that. It was she who had done that to him, sent him spiraling out of control with her hand alone. Her tongue poked through her lips as she thought about it, how different she was becoming. Was it a bad thing? Was she wrong?

Glory, she wondered what Evie would say to her if she told her everything that had happened. But then she decided that she really didn't want to discuss that with anyone—it was too intimate, too personal, and Ella wanted to keep it as something between her and Dally.

The girl's thoughts were cut short as the side door opened and her name was called. She glanced up quickly, cheeks still coated pink, as she met Dr. Andrews's eyes. He offered her a soft smile before motioning her to follow him back. The girl's body seemed to tremble just a little as she followed the man back to where her mother was, her face smoothing out as she wondered what the results would show. She could only hope that, somehow, her mother was better, but some part of her told her that it was more than unlikely, though that didn't stop her from hoping.

Frances was sitting on the exam table, her expression a little indifferent. Ella's gaze met hers for just a moment, but the sound of Dr. Andrews closing the door startled her a little, and she moved to the chair to listen to what he had to say. There was a silence that seemed to stiffen around the room as Ella waited, but judging from her mother's look, she figured she already knew the results. The seemingly growing tension perturbed her, and Ella felt her muscles contract as she waited for either Dr. Andrews or her mother to speak.

It was Frances who spoke first. "Ella," she said, her voice direct. One beat of silence. "The results show that the cancer has spread, and—"

The teen seemed to go deaf in her seat, eyes broadening at the explanation, a ringing sensation clouding her ears and making it impossible to hear anything else. She hadn't wanted to hear this, to be here in this situation, and suddenly, it was as if she were sucked right into one of her nightmares, fantasy and reality blurring the lines of time and pulling her down under. This is what she had been terrified to learn, but here she was, sitting in one of her nightmares, waiting to wake up at any second. But the distraught expression on her mother's face as she spoke made the girl feel selfish. Was she wrong for feeling so let down? What about her mother, the one who was going through it?

". . . but I suppose that's it."

Ella's lips pressed together. "That's it?" she repeated, brows crinkling together. Her gaze shifted to Dr. Andrews. "What do you mean by that?"

Dr. Andrews tried to look sympathetic, but a sigh fell from his lips. "Miss Mitchell, we have done all that we can for your mother." His tone was dragging and low. "I understand that this is a lot to process, but unfortunately . . ."

He trailed on, rambling about how science and this particular medical field weren't that advanced in their knowledge, and that whatever else, but Ella just couldn't process it—any of it. Or at least she didn't want to. So that was it, as her mother had relayed, or was it what Dr. Andrews had told her? Ella didn't know, and she didn't care about any of that. What she did care about was what was going to happen to her and her mother. There was no cure, there was nothing that could treat her illness. There was nothing. Hell, but there wasn't even any hope for them, was there? Ella's heartbeat was picking up and beginning to pound against her chest.

"Is that it, then?" she asked, voice like a knife.

Her mother nodded slowly. "I suppose so."

Dr. Andrews went on to say a few more things, but Ella didn't pay attention. All this time he had built them up with some facade of hope, going on about being positive and that they had to be anything but glum and negative.

Well, so much for that.

* * *

Mary leaned back against the exterior of the DX, her body relaxing on the bench as she shifted ever so slightly. She always enjoyed visiting Soda on days like these, mostly because the station was more vacated than days in the Summer. Mary actually liked the cooler seasons better than the warmer ones, because she liked the changing colors of the leaves, the frosty scenery, and she got rather excited around the holiday festivities. She and Soda shared their love of Thanksgiving and Christmas, and when Mary had relayed that Aunt Vera wasn't one for much decorating, Soda's jaw had spilled in shock, and that's when he had told her that she would have to come to his place and help him decorate. The thought made the raven-haired girl smile, for she wasn't used to such customs.

She turned to her side at the sound of the door opening, a smile gracing her lips at the sight of her boyfriend making his way toward her. Once his eyes landed on her slender frame, his brown eyes immediately lightening up, he crossed the path to reach her, a small bounce in his step. Not every day was Mary able to see him, but these surprises were always bound to put him in a better mood. What was better, though, was that Steve seemed to be coming around to the idea of Mary, which made Soda feel more relaxed—no longer did he have to sweep his relationship under the rug around his best buddy.

"Hey," he greeted, tone chipper. He took a seat next to her, wrapping an arm around her neck and turning his head to plant one on her lips. "I wasn't expecting to see you, darlin'."

Mary grinned, eyes holding a small twinkle. "I wanted to surprise you," she admitted softly. "Aunt Vera is out of town, so I figured I could drop by and visit you on your break."

Golly, but Soda sure loved this girl. She always did something to surprise him, whether it was by bringing him lunch, baked goods, or just by plain visiting him, Mary was a rare gem—one who so easily lit up his life like some beacon in the night. He had grown to love her more than he thought possible, and every time she graced him with her presence, it was as if every bad thing in his life instantly went away, or dissolved completely.

"Well, you certainly know how to make a guy happy, don't you?" he teased, moving toward her again to peck her lips. He just couldn't get enough of her. "She been treatin' you okay?"

Mary shrugged, her head lolling onto his shoulder as his fingers pressed into the side of her shoulder, a sigh moving past her lips. "She's been . . . better," came the dull response. "She hasn't said anything to me about us, which I supposed is good. But . . . I don't know, Soda, I feel that something is wrong, but I don't know what to make of it."

"Whatever gave you that impression?"

A frown crossed her lips. "Just the way she behaves. It's poisonous." At Soda's baffled expression, she explained. "Aunt Vera was never so controlling." A shrug. "She's manipulating and cunning, but now she does things directly out of spite. It's like when she broke my things to get back at me for going out with you. Do you remember?"

Soda nodded, muscles flexing as he thought about Mary's aunt. He still wanted to talk with her, but every time he mentioned doing so, Mary would stop him. It was killing him hearing how the girl's aunt treated her so wrongly, and it made him angry more than anything. He loved this girl, wanted to be with her, and glory, but it sounded funny to his ears, too. Soda could picture himself with Mary anywhere, and he was certain that this was the girl he would marry. Hell, he had been set on that girl being Sandy once upon a time, but now . . . he couldn't imagine himself with anyone but Mary. They had some shared connection, something that made them move toward each other, like magnets.

His eyes met hers. "I remember, Mary."

"It's like that." She closed her eyes for a second. "Do you ever think about . . . how things will be in the future . . . with us?" Her questions were coming out lowly, and Soda had to move a little to hear her a bit better. "Sometimes, I want to leave . . . to just . . . escape, but I don't think it's possible. Does that make sense?"

Soda's grip tightened around her smaller frame. "Yeah, it does."

* * *

". . . so I says, Honeybee, if you're turning into one of them hippies on me, I ain't stayin' along for the ride," Two-Bit was saying, and Ponyboy shook his head. "You know, I have to wonder what in the hell those people drink. Hell, it's gotta be somethin' in the water, know what I'm sayin', kid?"

The younger teen nodded. "Sure."

"Hey," Two-Bit said suddenly, coming to a stop. "You feeling alright, Ponyboy? You're lookin' a little flushed over there."

"I'm fine, Two-Bit," he answered. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. "You said that earlier. Alright," he said, picking his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, "what's goin' on, and don't tell me nothin', 'cause you an' me both know that's bull."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. Two-Bit had always been rather good at picking up on the little things with people. For someone who liked to pass his time spilling out joke after joke, Two-Bit Mathews had a way with words and perception that was almost solid gold. In a way, it reminded Ponyboy of Johnny, for he had been like that, too. Two-Bit was more or less subtle about it, though, or he would just come right out and ask, like he had just done. Well, Ponyboy thought, it wasn't anything special that had him in a sour mood, but Dally's words from earlier that morning had somewhat dampened his spirits, and he would be lying if he said the older boy's shift in mood hadn't perturbed him.

"It's nothing, really," he assured his friend. "I'm a little worried about Dally, that's all."

Two-Bit's lips pursed. "Dally? Why?"

Hell, there were a lot of things most people would be worried about with Dallas Winston, Two-Bit thought, but Ponyboy usually didn't get like this unless he was genuinely concerned about something, and if it was Dallas, it must've been something he'd said to the kid. And then Two-Bit remembered that Dallas was supposedly reading Ponyboy's book, or at least that was what Tim Shepard had said the other night, or was it— Hell, that didn't matter. What did matter was that Ponyboy was worried about their buddy, and if it had something to do with that, well . . . well, _shoot_.

But Ponyboy remained silent for a few seconds before answering. "He just made this weird remark to me this morning when he drove me to school." A shrug. "Told me he was reading my book, and he got real worked up about—"

"His death?"

A nod. "Yeah, that." His green eyes met Two-Bit's gray ones, his fingers curling around the inside material of his jean pockets. "Do you reckon it was . . . wrong?"

"Wrong?" Two-Bit repeated, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe not wrong, but perhaps you should have said something to him first. That must've been some surprise, huh . . ."

The red-headed teen flushed, guilt creeping up his spine. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"So what'd he say that has you so worked up?"

Ponyboy felt his hands becoming clammy as he recalled Dallas's words. He thought that it would have saved them a lot of trouble if he had just died that night. But would it have? Is that what Dallas still wanted . . . after all this time? It had been a year, and so far, Dallas had seemed to be making progress through working and being with Ella, but Ponyboy supposed that he still had never directly reconciled with himself or the past, and the fact that the book had twisted his life around with its ending must have brought up those memories for him. Blast it, Ponyboy thought miserably, but Two-Bit was right—he should have said something.

He took a breath, calming his thoughts. "I think he still wishes he had died that night . . ."

* * *

Ella's lips pressed hardly against Dallas's, his fingers stroking the skin beneath her blouse. She was a little uncomfortable, shifting herself on his lap in the front seat of the truck, but she didn't exactly care at that particular moment. She simply just wanted to forget about the day's events, to drown out that awful voice in the back of her mind telling her that she was being selfish, that she was wrong for going out with her boyfriend in a desperate attempt to forget her worries. Gosh, but the thoughts only made her press herself more firmly against him, his grip around her hipbone tightening. She felt his other hand drifting up, before finally settling against her chest, fondling the soft mounds. Her breath hitched in her throat as his tongue danced along with her own, and a breathy moan fell passed her lips, her own fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

It did feel wrong, she told herself. Glory, but she was being selfish. She should have been at home with her mother, not hiding out at the lake with Dallas Winston—boyfriend, or not—playing tonsil hockey in the front seat of his truck. But she just didn't want to think. It had been easier before, to drown out whatever Dr. Andrews had said to her mother while they were at the hospital, but now she couldn't seem to continue drowning the thoughts that were plaguing her mind. And some part of her kept telling her that she was merely using Dallas as a means to escape her own clouded reality, but that wasn't the case, was it? No, she had wanted to be with Dallas for the longest time, thought about being his girl and . . . kissing him, but now that it was happening, now that she was really with him, she couldn't feel anything but guilt.

Dallas pulled away from her after a moment, half-lidded eyes finding hers. "You ain't really into this, are you, sweets?"

Ella sat back a little, pushing her hair out of her face. "I am. It's not that I'm not." She licked her lips, a sigh moving through her mouth. "I just have a lot on my mind."

He eyed her almost critically. "Yeah?" And then he reached forward, grabbing his pack of cigarettes from the dash, pulling one out and lighting up. "Your mother?"

The girl nodded, a frown becoming evident on her face. "She's not doing well." Her gaze was planted on his lips as he blew out the smoke, a grayish cloud forming between them before dissipating, the remainder drifting through the cracked window. "There's nothing the doctors can do for her, so . . . I guess that's it."

Dallas stared at her face, the cigarette held loosely in his left hand as his right fingers tapped against her thigh. He knew that Ella had been having it rough, that her mother wasn't all that great, but he couldn't exactly sympathize with her verbally. Dallas just wasn't the one to give comfort like that to anyone, and even though he cared about Ella, he chose to distance himself from her issues that way. He knew she was only coming to him physically as a way to ease her troubles, put them behind herself for a few measly minutes in order to forget. Ella wasn't good at dealing with things like that, and he was quite aware of it, but he wouldn't bother with mentioning that little detail to her. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, or in the deep crevices of his icy heart, he cared about the girl, enough that he didn't want to see her looking like . . . _that_ , like she was then.

So he decided to change the topic. "You ever make a decision with that college or whatever?"

Ella blinked in surprise at the question. "No, I haven't given it much thought."

"Why not?" he asked, flicking his ashes.

A shrug. "I just haven't." She made a face, then. "Do you think I should go?"

"Ain't up to me," he responded, tilting his head a little. And then his brows furrowed. "Where's it at again? New York, right?"

"Yeah, New York," she answered, and shifted off his lap to sit beside him. She lit a cigarette of her own, moving back in the seat, her body leaning to the side as her head rested against his shoulder. She didn't notice Dallas's stare that was focused on the crown of her head, slowly moving to her face as she gazed at the darkened scenery through the windshield. "I'd leave in early January. I chose a Spring semester, that's why."

He hummed. "Two months, huh."

"Two months," she repeated. "I just don't know if I'm going or not. I have a month to decide."

The blond offered her a blank stare, but his eyes were cold. He didn't understand why in the hell Ella would want to stick around. Hell, there was nothing for her in their shitty town, nothing at all. He had plans of his own to get the hell out of there, to leave it behind, so why didn't Ella want to budge? Dallas had never really pictured her as the traveling or ambitious type, although she had a stubborn side. But that wasn't the point. There was nothing in that fucking town that was holding her back, unless she was going to cry the blues about her mother. He could understand that . . . to a certain degree, but Dallas had never given a hang about his old man or anything like that, so processing Ella's situation was a little difficult. He just wasn't the family type. Period.

"Yeah, well, you oughtta get the hell outta here, sweets," he replied. "Go make somethin' of yourself and all that jazz."

Ella's brow quirked as she looked up at him sideways. "You want me to go?"

"There ain't nothin' for you here."

"But—" she started to say, only for Dallas to cut her off, a sharp sound in his voice.

His eyes bore into her own icily. "You want to stay stuck in this shithole, be my guest." His jaw had clenched a little. "I ain't stickin' around much longer, Ella." At her questioning stare, he answered her silent inquiries. "I got places to go, don't know where the hell they're at, but this place? It's nothin', and it don't mean nothin' to me." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Hell, things are changing around here enough as it is, kid, and I don't want to stick around to see the rest of it."

Ella's eyes broadened. "What . . . what about us?"

"What about us?" he came back with, and tossed his finished cigarette out the window. "Look, Ella, I don't have much longer left of this probation, and once I got myself enough dough, I'm hitting the road. I don't need a plan or nothin', but . . . hell, that's the way I've been seeing things for a while now." He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but he figured she'd be awfully stupid if she didn't leave, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to be the one to hold her back. Better to loosen the strings now while there was still a chance. "What'd you think?"

But Ella was too busy digesting his words, a surreal look plastered on her face. "I didn't," she replied after a minute. "I'm just surprised, is all."

Dally didn't say anything for a good moment, but when he did, he was already onto another subject, his thoughts going back to Ponyboy and his book. Hell, that had been one thing stuck on his mind all day, and well, he figured he ought to tell Ella he was finished with the damn thing.

"You read Ponyboy's book?" he asked, expression stony.

Ella nodded in affirmation. "Yeah, a while ago." Her eyes lit up a little. "Did you finish it?"

Glory, he wanted to chuckle, but not because her question was funny. "Yeah, up to where I'm choosing to finish." His face hardened. "Kid sure has some brass ones, that's for sure."

The girl slowly nodded, but she knew what he meant. "You should . . . finish it through, Dally," she chose to say. "There's . . . Well, I mean, the ending is important."

"Sure," he replied, pressing his lips together to keep from saying something out of impulse. It still pissed him off, but he didn't want to have _that_ discussion with Ella. He shook his head. "I ain't sure about this publishing shit, and I ain't sure I'm giving my approval or whatever for my name." He reached for another cigarette to ease his nerves. "Kid fucked up."

Ella swallowed the lump in her throat. "Dally," she said after a minute of silence, the only audible sound being their breathing. When he glanced at her, she continued. "If I left, would you miss me?"

 _Like hell_ , he wanted to say, but instead he smirked. "Maybe I would. But if it makes you sleep better at night when you're . . . _all alone_ , sweets, you can tell yourself that I do." His brows raised a little. "Keep my picture under your pillow while you're at it."

"Dallas!" Ella said, although there was a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "You really are a jerk sometimes."

He could have made an easy or sly comment to that, but he chose not to. Instead, he flicked the half finished cigarette away and leaned forward to kiss her good and hard. He felt her easily melting against him, and he used his hand on the back of her head to bring her closer to him, his body moving to hover over her own as her arms wrapped around his neck, her back hitting the seat a minute later.

Her eyes met his, a focused look in them. "I want these next few weeks to be different, Dallas. I want to . . . I want to see things the way you do, I want to feel wild and free." Her fingers moved through his white-blond locks. "I just want to forget everything else, until it's time to think about it."

She was answered with his lips pressing to her own.

 _And if you don't know what to make of this  
_

 _Then we will not relate  
_

 _So if you don't know what to make of this  
_

 _Then we will not relate_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, and for all of the feedback on this story! :3**


	28. Tune It Out

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Ariana Grande owns "Breathin."**

* * *

 _Sometimes it's hard to find, find my way up into the clouds  
_

 _Tune it out, they can be so loud  
_

 _You remind me of a time when things weren't so complicated  
_

 _All I need is to see your face_

 **November 7, 1966**

Ginger was watching Ella fold a load of laundry with a careful eye, her hands placed firmly on her hips, her lips pressed into a frown as she scrutinized the girl's work. Ella felt a little nervous with Ginger practically invading her space, but she chose not to say anything. She relied on this job too much to jeopardize herself, relied on the income to pay off the stack of bills at home on the kitchen table. Her mother would still go for screening results, and she would still need her medication for the pain. Ever since Ella had found out that there wasn't anything left that the doctors could do, she tried to remain somewhat positive in a seemingly hopeless situation. What else was there that she could do?

She heard Ginger sigh from beside her, and she suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Ginger had become a little overbearing ever since Ella had called out the other week, and Ella felt as though she had to walk on eggshells around the woman. Still, she did her best to make sure all of her duties were completed by the time she clocked out. She had grown accustomed to working twelve hour shifts, but the toll it was taking on her was hidden behind a facade of calmness. Ella chose not to let her lethargy show, as she didn't want to give Ginger any other excuse to use against her. Heck, Ginger was awful enough as it was, but it wasn't her words that bothered Ella so much as it was her actions. She knew that Ginger could let her go any time that she wanted to, so the girl bit her tongue and did what was asked of her, continuing to work in the back with the washing, drying, and folding. Really, it was all mediocre tasks, but Ginger made them out to be much more than that.

"There," she said quietly, placing the last towel on the pile. "Mrs. Johnson's load is complete." She wiped her hands off on her work apron, turning to face Ginger. "Mr. Rumpson's should be out soon. I'll let you know when."

Ginger merely raised her chin. "Good. It appears you're completing tasks more efficiently around here, Miss Mitchell." A condescending smirk crossed her lips. "I should have put you on this particular job when you first started working here."

The girl's teeth pressed together, but she forced a smile onto her mouth. "Perhaps you should have."

Before Ginger could reply, the bell above the door chimed, alerting them of someone's entrance. Ella glanced over, brows furrowing together as she spotted a familiar sight of black hair, a tall and lithe figure carrying a bag of laundry inside. Her eyes widened in minor shock at who had just walked inside, and she found herself mildly surprised to see Tim Shepard, one of Tulsa's notorious hoods. Hell, she hadn't seen him since that night she ran into Dallas at the bar, but they hadn't spoken at all. Ella could barely remember the last time she had said a word to the black-haired hood. She found that she was intimated by him, and not because of who he was, but because of _how_ he was. He and Dallas were two of a kind, but there was a menacing silence to Tim Shepard that made Ella feel on edge. He was more calculating, more stern, but he never seemed to have a problem with Ella herself, and she figured that was because of Dallas.

Tim's eyes raised as they shifted toward Ginger and Ella, but he didn't bother to say anything. Ginger, though, seemed almost captivated by his appearance, her gaze firmly planted on his lithe frame, her body seemingly transfixed by the way he swaggered inside, as if he owned the place. Tim had a fast but fine pace, easily maneuvering through the aisles before stopping in front of one of the vacant washers, expression blank as he began sorting through his bag of laundry.

"Did you need any help, sir?" Ginger suddenly asked, and Ella shot her a look, surprised that the woman didn't have the same reaction toward him that she had Dallas. "I could—"

Tim cut her off before she could get the question out of her mouth, his voice subtle. "No thanks." He looked her over briefly, appearing to be disinterested. But that was just Tim. He was quick and sharp with people, especially when he wasn't in the mood to deal with them, which is something Ella saw reflected in Angela. "I can take care of this myself."

Ginger looked . . . appalled? Ella inwardly grimaced, lips pursing as she placed Mr. Rumpson's folded laundry into a spare basket. She heard Ginger clear her throat, an almost awkward sound, as she shifted the basket aside, eyes scanning the clock as she realized it was time for her morning break.

"Well," Ginger continued, nose crinkling a little, "if you do need any assistance, please don't hesitate to ask." She eyed Ella as she passed. "You may go on break, Miss Mitchell."

The teen didn't respond, simply tossing her apron on the table before heading outside into the cool, crisp air. She really enjoyed the cooler months, but she didn't like the biting cold that prickled her skin and made her face tingle. She rubbed her hands together as she breathed in, her breath noticeable in the light frost. Glory, but it was cold, she thought, shoving her hands into her pockets. Hadn't it just been warm out? Hadn't she just tried to use fake tanner to give herself some color? She couldn't believe that they were halfway through the Fall, that Winter was just around the corner. She wondered what Dallas was doing for the holidays—she had never bothered to ask. A few days ago, she had told him that she wanted to forget about everything until it was time to actually think about it, and so far, she had been doing a good job at it. She hadn't thought about anything that made her upset, instead choosing to bury herself in her work, Dallas, and her friends. Even her mother had become a bigger part of her life, and the nights when they were both home they were engrossed in conversations together about this and that, things that they hadn't ever bothered to speak about before.

It was nice.

It felt as though things were starting to look up, and Ella couldn't have been happier. Even she and Dallas were doing better in their relationship, but there was still one issue Ella hadn't sorted out with herself, and that involved their intimate life. That was something she had been thinking about a lot, and even though she felt nervous about it, she . . . she wanted to. She remembered Evie telling her a while back to just let things happen on their own, that she would be fine, but Ella couldn't help the feelings that lingered throughout her mind and body.

The sound of the door opening disturbed her thoughts, and she glanced to the side at Tim Shepard, who nodded to her. His eyes were hard looking, electric blue coloring being the only thing that gave them any sort of liveliness. He towered over her as he stood beside her, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cigarettes, lighting one up with ease and holding the carton out to her, which she accepted with a small smile.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," she decided to say, lighting up. And even though she was still a little nervous around him, she continued on. "How have you been?"

Tim shrugged. "I usually don't hang around laundromats." He inhaled slowly. "Been better."

Ella licked her lips, nodding. She figured what Tim really meant was that he didn't bother holding up laundromats. It was still surprising to see him wandering inside with a bag of laundry, but she knew, like everyone else, he was still a person, too, no matter how apathetic and stony he acted. Golly, but she could still recall the first time she had met him, the night she had gotten into the backseat of his car, right behind Dallas. It seemed almost bizarre now to be standing so casually around him, to be speaking to him as if they were friends. How strange, she thought, the company she kept. A year ago, she would have never thought . . . and yet, here she was.

Tim looked down at the girl next to him. "How've you been, kid?"

She made a face. "Fine, I guess."

The older teen looked ahead for a moment, eyes narrowing. He didn't really know Ella Mitchell all that well, didn't care to, either. He figured, though, that she had to be a little interesting, especially since she had been holding Dallas's interest for these past few months. He knew that Curly had tried to pick her up once a while back, and hell, he'd be lying if he didn't find that ridiculously stupid. Then there was the fact that Angela had some . . . weird fondness of her, not they were good friends or nothin', but the fact remained. Tim had heard Ella's name mentioned around a few times, but he never bothered himself with her—she wasn't important to him. What had sparked his curiosity was Dwayne Mitchell, but not Ella herself. When Dwayne was gunned down, everybody began gossiping about it, but nobody had put together that Ella had been related to the bastard. Was she known so little? Being with Dallas hadn't even drawn attention to her, and Tim figured she did a mighty swell job of keeping herself on the down-low—she was fucking invisible.

Ella, whether out of boredom or nervousness, spoke up. "Angela used to stop here frequently back in the Summer." She smiled. "I remember her telling me that your washer broke, so she would hangout with me while she washed the laundry."

Tim made a sound like a faint chuckle. "Broke again."

"How is she doing?" came the next question. "Angela, I mean."

"Still in school, so I guess that's somethin'."

The girl's face scrunched up. She was surprised that her and Tim were standing there like this talking so easily to one another. She hadn't seen much of Angela lately, but she figured that was due to everything that had taken place, along with the fact that the younger girl was still in school. She had never been too close to Angela Shepard, but she didn't mind her. She knew that Evie wasn't particularly fond of the black-haired girl, which was understandable, but Ella was really on the outside of that ordeal, and she chose to remain that way. She was neutral.

Tim flicked his ashes away. "Dallas read the Curtis kid's book?"

Oh, boy, Ella thought, shifting on her feet. "He's read . . . most of it, I believe. I think he and Ponyboy talked about . . . publishing it." She didn't want to relay what Dallas had said to her several days back, afraid that it would get back to Ponyboy. "That's all I know."

He nodded, humming for a second. "Yeah." And then he eyed her quickly. "Suppose it is."

* * *

It was a rarity when just Darry and Ponyboy spent any time alone together. Soda had a date with Mary that he had just left for, and everyone else had other plans for the night, whatever they may be. Pony was glad that the house was quiet for once, no shouting or wrestling taking place in the living room, or things being knocked over, or the radio blasting along with the television. For once it was almost quiet, or peaceful, and Ponyboy found that he actually enjoyed that. He could have went out to the Nightly Double or something, maybe bowling—a few guys had invited him earlier in school—but he just wasn't in the mood, finding some solace at home. Darry had gotten out of the shower a few minutes earlier, and he had decided to watch whatever was on, leaving Ponyboy to clean up the kitchen after dinner and find something else to do.

He thought he might relax by reading or something, but every time he picked up a book, he was instantly reminded of Dallas and his words from the other day. The only person he had confided in was Two-Bit, but not even he knew what to make of the situation. Dally was quiet around them, and Pony thought that he seemed pretty normal otherwise. He was still the same hardened hoodlum, icy exterior and all, but upon closer inspection, the younger teenager realized that there was a lot more depth lurking beneath the surface. There had to be, otherwise Dallas would have never made that remark, which brought Ponyboy back to the present. With a sigh, he dropped the book he had picked up earlier, and placed it back on the nightstand, eyes reflecting perplexity.

He crept out to the living room, hoping that maybe Darry could offer some insight. He really didn't want to bother his brother with this, but he thought it was important. In fact, Ponyboy was concerned, and that was what was bothering him so much. Everybody knew how calculating and reckless Dallas was, and that night over a year ago had only proved it, but now . . . now there was something more, and Ponyboy silently blamed himself for telling Dally to read the book. Oh, the blond would probably whack him upside the head for even considering the fact that he had some form of power over his emotions, but it seemed quite factual, especially to Ponyboy.

"Hey, Darry," he called, voice almost timid. When the older boy's attention was on him, he cleared his throat, stepping out into the room. "Do you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you about something . . . or well, about someone."

Darry's eyes squinted, and he figured that if Pony wanted to speak to him, it must have been urgent. He nodded, though, beckoning him over. "Sure, kiddo. What's up?"

Ponyboy took a seat beside him on the couch. "It's about . . . Dallas."

For a brief second, Darry expressed worry, and he had to wonder if Dally had gotten pissed about the book, or if Tim Shepard had done something. He doubted the latter, but anything was possible in a situation like that. Then again, Ponyboy looked more . . . concerned, as if he were more on edge with something that was bothering him personally. Darry remembered Dallas stopping by the house a few days back to give Ponyboy a ride to school, and come to think of it, ever since then, Ponyboy had seemed . . . off.

But the book was his only guess. "Is it about your book, Ponyboy?"

The look in his kid brother's eyes said everything, and he nodded. "Yeah, it's about the book." He took a breath, leaning back into the cushions. "Well, actually, it's something he said to me about it, and about the end . . . or his end, rather."

Darry stiffened, realization taking over his face. "Oh. I see."

Ponyboy's lips pursed. "He told me that it would have saved a lot of trouble if we would have just let him die that night . . . one year ago." His eyebrows pressed together as he recalled the conversation. "I told Two-Bit, but he didn't know what to say."

"I reckon he wouldn't," came the monotone response. "Gee, Ponyboy," Darry said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I ain't sure what to say myself. I suppose it's no use trying to talk to him, but I'm guessing he's not—"

"Giving his consent for the book," the teen finished, sighing softly. "Two-Bit said that I should have told him about his death scene, but I didn't write it as a form of mockery, or to use anything against him, Darry, honest I didn't."

Darry nodded understandingly. "I know you didn't, little buddy. Dallas just has a . . . way of accepting things, and I suppose he never reconciled with Johnny's passing, or any of it." As the words tumbled out of his mouth, a light switch seemed to go off in his head. He had never bothered to think about it until this particular moment, and suddenly, Dally's words made sense to him. Oh, boy howdy, he thought, blinking once. "Ponyboy—"

"I sure feel awfully guilty, Darry," the younger boy was saying, face flushed. "I suppose I really ought to apologize to him, huh?"

He shook his head. "Ponyboy, it's not you," he stated, tone serious. "Dally blames himself for Johnny's death, that's why he made that comment to you." As if he didn't have a headache already, this was just one waiting to happen. "He probably thinks we do, too."

"I don't blame him," Ponyboy responded, face mirroring shock. He was stumped. Did Dallas really think they blamed him? That he had written his death scene because that's the way everyone wished things would have worked out? Oh, no. Ponyboy felt warm suddenly, immense guilt welling up in his gut and creeping up his spine. He should have known. He should have. "Darry, you don't think—"

Darry cut him off quickly. "No. Let's take things one step at a time, kiddo. Look, you got to find a way to talk to him, even if he don't want to hear it from you." A sigh. "Explain why you wrote what you did, Ponyboy, or at least convince him to read the ending first. It's gotta come from you." His eyes met his firmly, a pressed expression on his tired face. "It's only the two of you that way . . . without Johnny."

* * *

There was a knock at the door, and Mary's eyes broadened as she considered Soda. He had told her that he wanted to speak with her aunt, but Mary was reluctant to let him do so. She trusted him, she loved him for crying out loud, but she was also afraid, very afraid. Aunt Vera was a strict and imposing woman, and in her house, her word was law—something that Mary had become accustomed to from an early age. She feared what Aunt Vera would do if she found Soda on the property, or inside the house, for she had strict orders—not rules, but orders—about him being within her own dictated limits. Mary found the entire thing ridiculous, but she never voiced her opinion, too terrified to do so.

She crept along the foyer, praying to the good man above that Aunt Vera wouldn't budge from her spot in her office, and made her way to the door. She didn't even have to look to know that it was Soda, as he had told her that he had plans to stop by. Mary knew that she couldn't stop him, because once Soda had his mind set on something, there was no changing it. He was stubborn that way, stubborn and brave, things that Mary was not. But she found those characteristics admirable, and she loved and adored him for who he was, unlike the other young gentlemen Aunt Vera had tried to set her up with throughout the past year or two.

"Soda," she half-whispered, brown eyes expressing shock. "I—"

He interrupted her, although his voice wasn't harsh. "Mary, please let me in." His eyes softened as he looked at her, a silent but desperate plead. "Is your aunt home?"

But before Mary had a chance to answer him, Aunt Vera herself appeared behind the girl, her own face contorting into a very sinister look. Her hand came down upon Mary's shoulder, fingers curling around the soft skin as she shimmied her aside, her gaze landing on Soda's. Her countenance was radiating just how bitter and angry that she was, and for a second, Soda figured that he couldn't blame her, especially since he had agreed to her terms, through Mary that is. But still, he couldn't bring himself to really care at that particular minute, because he had been wanting to speak to this woman for weeks now, and he'd had about all he could take from her. Beside Vera DuPres, Mary stood, her hands clasped together in front of herself, a sign that she was clearly distressed and nervous.

"What are you doing on my property?" Aunt Vera inquired, her voice clipped. "Speak!"

Soda's upper lip curled just a little. "I want to speak with you, Ms. DuPres, if you have a moment to spare. I'd appreciate it."

The woman looked absolutely disgusted. "You know the rules about—"

"I do," he said, cutting her off, annoyance seeping through his words. "But I have no way of contacting you directly, so I guess I'm breaking your rules." He watched as her gaze drifted onto Mary, and his nostrils flared. "Mary didn't invite me here. I came on my own, against her wishes."

Aunt Vera's head snapped back in his direction. "I have no desire to speak with you, Mr. Curtis," she bit out. "Now, turn around and leave my property before I have the police escort you off. Do you want that? I can have it arranged."

But Soda took a daring step forward, hand jutting out to secure the door from closing. Another step had Vera DuPres taking one back, her eyes broadening as she raised a hand to slap the teen. But Soda had easily dodged her oncoming blow, grabbing her wrist to keep her from swinging again. His eyes were expressing his own anger, but he wouldn't dare to hurt the woman. He just wanted to talk to her, try to understand what it was that she held against him, other than his social class, which fell quite a way below her own, but he had a feeling that there was more than just her prejudice attitude.

"I just want to talk," Soda said sharply. "I don't quite understand your dislike of me, Ms. DuPres, and I certainly don't understand what I've done to make you think so lowly of me." He released her wrist then, but didn't budge an inch. "I want to know what you have against me and Mary, and I want you to tell me now . . . to my face."

Behind him, Mary's hand was covering her mouth, eyes wide. But she moved up beside him, her hand enclosing around his arm as she tried to find her own courage. She had been sick of her aunt's attitude for so long, never having the guts to address the woman, and now that Soda had, Aunt Vera was mighty displeased, but there was also something else reflecting in her cold eyes, something that Mary had never noticed before, something that unnerved her. She eyed the two of them almost viciously, before beckoning them into the parlor, her lips pressed hardly into a frown.

Soda took Mary's hand as they followed her aunt into the room. The tension in the air was thick, and the two teens waited anxiously to hear what the woman had to say. When she turned, though, her eyes landed on Mary, and the teen stiffened, waiting for some kind of blow. However, she was momentarily stunned at the words that fell from her aunt's mouth, her hand gripping Soda's tighter.

"I do not owe either of you an explanation," she stated, eyes sharp and scolding. "However, it is quite obvious how you both feel about each other."

There was a pregnant pause, before Soda cut in. "Then why do you treat Mary the way you do?" What he really meant was why does she force Mary to live in a shitty environment? But he wouldn't say that to her, not with Mary clinging to him the way she was. "Ms. DuPres, I only want to make Mary happy, that's all I want to give her—happiness."

Vera DuPres sighed. "I understand, but I've stipulated my rules, Mr. Curtis. I do not approve of your relationship with my niece, but I will not intervene." Her chin raised. "However, the rules still apply, and if you are to see Mary, then you both shall abide by them. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Mary answered almost immediately, voice wavering.

Soda's brows knitted. "So that means that Mary is—"

"I will not intervene," Vera repeated, expression fixed. She was tired of this nonsense, tired of that boy seeing her niece, but Mary would be seventeen in a month, which meant that she was a year shy of eighteen. There would be nothing she could do to refrain the girl from doing whatever she wanted at that point, and keeping up with her rebelling antics was becoming difficult. "Are we clear?"

The golden-haired teen nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

That was all there was to it. Her eyes drifted to her niece, a smile creeping along her lips as she passed her by, quietly telling her to have fun on her date that night. Oh, to be young, Aunt Vera thought to herself . . . young and so incredibly naive. Such fools they were.

* * *

Evie was laughing as she passed Ella a drink. "Here," she said, pushing her hair out of her face. "Drink up, El. You look like you need it!"

The older girl shook her head, but took the drink. "Glory, you're drunk."

Hell, Evie had always been a comical drunk, but Ella was certain that she'd never seen her drink that much before—not until then anyway. But that was the plan, even though it was a school night for Evie, to get a little plastered and forget their troubles. Dallas was off talking to some guys while he played a game of pool, and Steve was in the back room immersed in a game of poker, leaving Ella and Evie alone at a spare booth to talk about this and that. Buck had been rather lenient that night, and Evie was in full swing to take advantage of that fact, partially because Buck himself was drunk off his rocker and wouldn't remember anything come the next day.

Ella leaned forward on the table, sipping her drink lightly. "Have you seen Bridget and Two-Bit around lately?" she decided to ask.

The younger girl shrugged. "Yeah, in the hall sometimes. You know, it's funny," she continued, looking rather thoughtful. "I hardly see any of the people that used to be in my social circle." A shrug. "It feels as though things have changed, and it's weird because we're all in the same building five days a week together, for several hours, and . . . I barely see anyone." Her lips pursed as she looked across the table at Ella. "I think I speak more to Ponyboy than anyone else now. Ain't that somethin'?"

"Yeah," Ella answered sympathetically. She understood her words perfectly. "I just feel as though I've drifted away from everyone I used to speak to, including you."

Evie nodded. "Life is just getting in the way, isn't it?" And then a startled look crossed her face, as if she had just remembered something important. "Have you made a decision about Berkeley yet?"

Oh, how Ella wanted to drown just then. She hadn't wanted to think about college or anything, but she knew that she had to, and prolonging the issue wasn't going to help her in the long run. Dallas wanted her to go, wanted her to get out of their shitty town, but Ella was at a cross road. She didn't know if leaving in only a few short weeks was really the answer. It's not as if going to college and escaping her life would solve her issues in the long run. But there was a part of her that did want to leave, that so desperately wanted to be on her own, to learn and grow out there in the world. Glory, but she had never been out of Tulsa, not once in her almost nineteen years of life. Ella longed to know what the world had in store for her, and Dallas's encouraging voice sounded like a broken record in her mind. Honestly, it still shocked her that he wanted her to go.

But was she ready? She didn't know.

Her eyes met Evie's, and she shrugged. "I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Well, you better start considering it, El," she responded with, tilting her head back to finish the rest of her drink. "You'd leave in only a few short weeks, right?"

A nod. "Yeah."

Evie, noticing her shift in mood, changed the topic. "So, what are you doing for Dallas's birthday?" A smile appeared on her lips. "I've been hounding Steve for a quadrupedal date for a while, so if you don't have plans for Dallas, maybe we could all go out and do something fun."

The older teen grinned, although it didn't exactly meet her eyes. Dallas's birthday was only two days away, and she hadn't even gotten him anything. Hell, what would Dally even want? And then her eyes widened as she considered exactly what would be a special gift, or what she could do for him. There were a lot of things, but . . . Ella just wasn't sure.

"That's a good idea," she replied, taking a sip of her drink, eyes lighting up as Dallas made his way over to their booth. She smiled up at him as leaned down to peck her lips, his countenance seemingly perky for the first time that evening. Then again, Dallas was usually in a better mood when he was busying himself at parties, getting drunk and whatever else. "You win?" she asked him as he sat down beside her, reaching over to finish off her drink.

He placed his earnings on the table in front of them. "Won fifty bucks," he answered cockily. His arm slithered around Ella's shoulders. "Hustled that Mexican cowboy 'til his pockets were dry for the rest of this night."

Ella smirked. "Sounds like you had a good time."

She was answered with his lips pressing against hers, and Evie quickly excused herself from the booth, sending a wink at Ella as she made her way back to use the bathroom, her one overused excuse when she either wanted to give people privacy, or when she wanted to make a cheap escape. Ella felt bad, but Dallas's hungry lips moving against her own just felt too good, and she found that it was easier to ignore her own troubles for a little while when she was with him like this. She just wanted those feelings to run hot through her veins, like that one day she had gotten into that stolen vehicle with him, the one day she had felt adrenaline pumping throughout her body, leaving nothing but the feeling of innate wildness and freedom to linger inside of her.

Her hands snaked around his neck, pulling him closer to her as she deepened the kiss, and from across the room, Steve shook his head at the two of them, his game of poker having ended just a few minutes prior. Evie was chuckling next to him, wondering how in the hell Ella Mitchell and Dallas Winston were even a couple. Glory, but the whole thing still felt surreal, but there they were, their faces glued to each others as they practically made out in the booth, both of them lost in their own little world, somewhere away from everyone else. Everyone and everything else had been tuned out, blending into the background and fading out completely, until all they could focus on was each other.

For those few moments, nothing felt complicated, nothing mattered.

Things were okay.

 _Feel my blood runnin', swear the sky's fallin'  
_

 _I keep on breathin'  
_

 _Time goes by and I can't control my mind  
_

 _I keep on breathin', mmm, yeah_

* * *

 **Are Mary and Soda really safe from Aunt Vera?**

 **Reviews and such are always appreciated! Thank you for reading! :3**


	29. Love In the Big Town

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Alannah Myles owns "Love In the Big Town."**

* * *

 _Step right up, lay your money down  
_

 _If you're looking to buy love in the big town  
_

 _Lift you up, tear you down  
_

 _Leave you begging for more love in the big town_

 **November 9, 1966**

"That's it, girl," Dallas said, patting Artemis's neck. He offered her a sheepish grin, a rare one at that, watching her as she practically gobbled the apple out of his hand. Glory, but she still wasn't completely broken in yet, but she was getting better, a lot better. She didn't do well with other people, but with Dallas, she acted like a champ; he would never admit it to anyone, but he was damn proud of that horse. "Glory, but you're sure hungry, ain't ya?"

He led her back to the barn after a few minutes with slow steps. In all honesty, Dallas quite enjoyed the mornings when nobody was around. He liked working with the horses, even if he was by himself that particular day. He was keeping busy, which he thought might actually be a good thing, or rather, that was what Ella had said. Dallas didn't pay any of that too much mind, though, but Ella had been a bit persistent that he keep himself busy—it made time go quicker. The blond supposed that she was worried about him getting into trouble or some bullshit, but trouble, even though he had always been a magnet to it, hadn't been all that tempting to him. He figured it was because he didn't want to work for any gangs—he was his own leader, one of the reasons why he wouldn't ever let Tim recruit him. But that was just fine and dandy, for Dallas Winston didn't need anyone, didn't need to rely on anyone. He was his own person, wild and free, and that was all there was to it.

As those thoughts occupied his mind, he considered his girlfriend for a moment. Damn, but he had to admit that he and Ella had come a long way, one helluva way, if he was being honest with himself, which he was. He would have ditched most broads by now, but Ella? She was different. Hell, she wasn't fucking special or any of that sentimental jazz, but she was different, in her own way. Dallas considered her a friend of his, even though they were together. Recalling their conversation from the other night, he had to wonder where they stood now, though. He had basically told her that he didn't care where they ended up, and he wanted to see her get out of that town, no matter how she did it. And, hell, if she had to go to some college just to do that, then so be it. He'd miss her, sure, but that was it, there was nothing else.

Still, Dallas couldn't help but to remember the surprised look in her eyes, the way she had stared at him for a moment, as if she was wondering what to do. But had she actually thought that they would be together forever? Glory, but he sure hoped not. Things didn't work that way with him. Dallas Winston wasn't the type to settle down and all that shit. Ella should have known that, she should have known what she was getting into when she first stepped into this relationship with him. He thought she did, he thought she understood, but . . . The teen shook his head. Ella was something else, and he was certain that she might just be the one broad he didn't forget. Yeah, he'd remembered a lot of chicks, but Ella would be the one he wasn't going to forget, that dope.

Artemis bucked her head as he closed her stall, making a sound like a soft grunt. She always got a little antsy when he closed her in, but she had gotten much better. Dallas gave her a carrot to console her, giving her one last pat before making his way back out. Boy howdy, but the air was chilly, and Dallas wished that he had a heavier jacket—this shit was getting ridiculous. Yeah, the only good one he had was the brown leather jacket with the yellow sheep's lining, but . . . yeah, that was gone. Guess he was shit out of luck then, he thought with a shake of his head. Dammit.

"Winston."

The blond jerked around, eyes narrowing at the sight of Gentry Knox standing a few feet from him, the older man's face contracted to doubt. His eyes were fixed, though, an almost defeated expression on his face as he took a few steps forward. Dallas felt himself stiffen, wondering what in the fuck Knox had wanted with him, his own face reflecting a sneer.

"The hell do you want?" he bit out, clearly annoyed. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this bastard, didn't want to hear anything he had to say, either. "Well?"

Gentry came to a stop with one foot or so between them. "Came to talk to ya, Winston." At the teen's look of perplexity, he continued. "It's about Dwayne Mitchell." A pause. "I figured you gotta right to know what happened all those years ago, kid, why I did what I did." He spit to the side, running his tongue over his teeth. "It might be too late to—"

But Dallas cut him off. "You're goddamn right it's too late, you prick." His face hardened. "You think I give a shit about that scumbag?" His nose wrinkled. "Far as I'm concerned, that piece of shit is where the hell he belongs."

"And your girl?"

The question caught him off guard, and Dallas froze for a second. He didn't like where the hell this was going at all. He could deal with Gentry Knox on his own, or Dwayne Mitchell's ratty partner, whatever-the-fuck his name was. Cody? Sounded right. But bringing Ella into it was something he wasn't going to do, no way in hell. No. Ella had already been through too fucking much, and the last thing he wanted to do was put her back through the ringer. Jesus Christ. And here Gentry was, probably concocting up some bullshit sob story to turn the tables because everyone knew that he served as an accomplice to Dwayne and Cody.

"You keep her the hell out of this, you hear me?" Dallas strolled forward, leaving only a few inches of room between them. "The only thing I want from you is my fucking dough."

A small smirk curved the man's mouth upward. "Yer getting ahead of yerself, Winston. You see, I've got yer money, so quit—"

Before Gentry could finish, Dallas gripped the front of his shirt and shoved him back, moving so that he had him up against the side of the barn. He had been patient, too patient, with this son-of-a-bitch, and he was done dealing with him. He hadn't seen him since the night Dwayne was killed, and quite frankly, he had no intentions of ever dealing with him again. It didn't matter about the Slash J, because Dallas didn't have any plans of stickin' around that fucking town much longer.

His breathing was rapid. "You stay the fuck away from me and Ella, you hear?" His voice remained flat as he spoke, eyes burning ice. "Leave Dwayne where the fuck he belongs with all your bullshit. Ain't nobody around who wants to hear it from you." He gave him another shove for good measure, before letting go, lips thinned. "Got it?"

Gentry spit as he threw a wad of folded bills at the blond-headed teen. "You're a goddamn fool, Dallas Winston. A goddamn fool."

* * *

Ella drew in a breath of air as she exited the laundromat later that evening. She was glad that Shannon was returning from maternity leave the following week, as that meant she would be going back to her regular hours. It would be a decrease in her paycheck, but for once, Ella didn't mind so much, just wanting to take it easy for a while. Besides, she had missed Shannon's company at work; at least when she was around, Ginger would go a lot easier on her. Shannon was desperate for the money, too, and Ella had heard that she was antsy to get back to work. Well, it would be a relief for the both of them, Ella thought with a small smile, rubbing her hands together in the brisk air. Glory, but it had sure gotten cold out, real cold.

But that was okay, she figured, she was only going to take a brief stroll to the store down the road and pick out a jacket for Dallas as a birthday present. It was odd, Ella thought, but a year ago, she had been snooping around the student files just to find Dallas's—it seemed like forever ago now. But was it? Or had time been slipping past each of them like melted butter through fingers? An eerie sensation crept up the girl's spine, but she shook that feeling away, deciding that time was the last thing she wanted to think about right then. Besides, she and Dally had agreed not to talk about anything like that until the time came—it was better not to dwell on things like that anyway. It wouldn't do either of them any good, and Ella didn't want to think about such things to begin with. Glory, but there were two major things coming up next month, and one was her potentially leaving, and then there was Ponyboy's book, and right then, Ella was content with setting them on the back burner.

"Ella!"

The teen came to a stop, her body turning as she made out Angela Shepard lightly jogging to catch up with her. Ella cocked an eyebrow, surprised to see the younger girl, but not put off. In fact, she thought it was quite comical, as Ginger seemed to have a weird interest in Tim Shepard, who had stopped by earlier that morning with another load (or three) of laundry. Ginger just seemed to ogle the dark-haired hood from afar, even trying to talk to him once or twice, and surprisingly, Ella actually felt sorry for her. Tim just wouldn't give her the time of day, and though Ella wouldn't admit that the entire exchange had been rather . . . goofy, she did feel somewhat bad. Okay, so Ginger wasn't awful—Ella had dealt with worse, but she couldn't help herself . . .

"What's up?" she asked as Angela came to a stop in front of her.

The younger girl looked a bit distressed. "Oh, nothin'," she answered. "I was actually lookin' to meet up with . . . someone, but he ain't around." She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a dramatic fashion, and Ella's brows furrowed. "Hey, you have a cigarette? I could sure use one."

"Sure," came the dull response, and Ella handed over her pack of Lights.

Angela frowned. "You know, I can't stand boys sometimes." And here came a rant, Ella could feel it from a mile away. "Sometimes, they're okay, and sometimes it's easy to be around them, but then . . . they just do stupid shit, and then somehow, it's our fault." She inhaled hardly. "Do you understand that? I just hate it."

The brown-haired girl offered a tentative nod. "Who are you talking about, though?"

A shrug. "Does it matter?"

Ella wanted to tell her that, yes, it did matter. It mattered because Angela usually didn't go on a rant about different people at once—it was usually one specific person who rubbed her wrong that made her angry. Unfortunately, Ella had been playing counselor since the Summer, but she was never able to actually help the girl, only console her. Angela liked to make mountains out of molehills, though, and Ella figured it was her way of expressing the fact that she wanted attention. Nobody paid attention to her unless they wanted or needed something of her, and little Angela was craving both attention and affection. Of course, Ella knew about her reputation, heard some about it, and she knew from both Curly and Tim—and even Evie, Dallas, and Ponyboy—that Angela wasn't the type of company you kept around unless you wanted a name. But that didn't bother Ella in the least, not at all. In fact, she liked Angela, not enough to trust the girl, but enough that she considered her a friend—at a distance.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine."

Angela's cat-like eyes focused on her for a moment. "Well, it's not that. I guess . . . well, remember that boy I was with at Matt Brown's party?" At Ella's nod, she continued. "It's him." A pause. "I like him, you know, I like him a lot, but he don't seem to care about me."

"Dean Mathis, right?" She remembered Dally mentioning his name.

"Yeah, him." The smoke billowed out of her mouth. "He was supposed to meet me across from Sutton, but he never showed." There was a silence as the two fell in step, Angela mostly tagging along beside Ella, her chin slightly bowed. "He seemed real nice at that party, and maybe even so afterward, but I guess he don't want to be bothered no more."

Ella felt bad, honestly she did. "I don't know what to say." She felt her cheeks tinting. "I would tell you to forget about him and move on. Truthfully, Angela, he doesn't deserve you if he's going to treat you like that."

"You say that, and you're dating Dallas Winston," came the low response, and even though it wasn't said with any form of indignance, Angela's voice had been a little sharp. "You of all people should know what that's like."

The older teen felt shock surge through her body. "I . . . I don't understand."

But Angela rolled her eyes. "You can't tell me that he treats you good all the time. I've seen the way he treats girls, lovin' them and leavin' them." She sucked on her cigarette. "I know what he's really like, hell, he's only been friends with my brother Tim for years now."

"I don't—"

But Angela kept going. "Don't worry about it, though. Ain't like nothin' is meant to last forever, so it ain't worth thinkin' about."

Ella could only stare at the younger girl, wondering what it was that she meant. There was an ominous tone to her voice, once which unnerved Ella more than anything, and for some reason, Angela's words continued to haunt her mind for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

Ella bit into a hot dog, trying to hide a smirk at Evie, who had accidentally dripped ketchup onto her dark blouse. The brunette hadn't been too mad, though, going on that it wouldn't really be all that noticeable against the dark color. Still, the annoyance had seeped miserably through her voice, but Ella still chuckled lightly, prompting Evie to teasingly tell her that she hoped she chocked on her hot dog, which cracked her up even more. It felt good to be out like this, Ella thought while she chewed away, to be away from everything for a while. Her mother was home for the night, but she had told Ella to go out and enjoy herself, to get away from everything and have fun, so that's what the girl decided to do. Besides, it was Dallas's nineteenth birthday, and she didn't want to sit at home and not celebrate with him—no, she couldn't do that.

"Alright, so what did you wanna tell me?" Evie asked, tossing her balled up napkin in the trash. "I swear, El, if this is about you and—"

The older girl's eye broadened. "What? No, it's not . . . that. Gees, Evie." She shook her head, taking a breath. "Alright, I know you don't like her, but I ran into Angela today, and well, I think something might be wrong." At Evie's bewildered stare, Ella made a face. "It's just something she said, that's all."

Now that got Evie's attention. "Oh, yeah? What was that?" She snorted. "Let me guess, she broke a finger nail, or . . . wait, she got rejected!"

"Okay," Ella cut in, eyes shifting toward the guys for a moment. "You know Dean Mathis?" When the younger teen nodded in affirmation, Ella continued on. "Well, she compared her and him to me and Dally." She pursed her lips for a second, a shiver running up her spine as she recalled her conversation with the girl from earlier that evening. "It was weird, but I can't describe it." A sigh. "I suppose it was the way she said it, that I should understand what it's like to be mistreated and move on from someone."

Evie's brow quirked. She and Angela Shepard were never fans of each other, but from the worried tone of Ella's voice, Evie considered that she might be right—maybe there was something wrong with the younger girl, but it wasn't like Evie truly cared or paid attention to the likes of Angela. Hell, her name was like poison on the tongue, and just hanging around with her was sure to gain a person, a girl particularly, a few names. Evie didn't want to get involved with that mess, and whatever Ella meant about her and Dally, and Angela and Dean, didn't make sense at all—Angela must've been off her rocker again, or something. Evie wouldn't deny that she was somewhat intrigued by Angela's misfortune, but that was all it was, nothing more.

"I wouldn't let it bug you," she replied after a moment. "Angela has it rough, but which one of us don't have it like that?" Her eyes turned sharp. "She's got problems at home, you know, with her step-daddy an' all that. And her mother ain't nothin' real special, so . . . she's just probably lookin' for attention again." She took a sip of her soda, a distant look in her dark eyes. "Angela has always been like that, Ella, always looking to snatch up someone, anyone, who will pay her some mind. She lacks it at home, 'cause nobody wants anything to do with her, but that's just the way things are."

Ella felt her stomach turn cold. "That's not right."

"'Course it ain't," came the dull response. "But that's how it is."

It was odd, Ella thought, a slight grimace on her face, but Angela's words suddenly reminded her of Cherie Peters's from a few months back. There was a similar ring in both girls' words that made Ella feel as though she wasn't making the best choice . . . and then there was her mother who disapproved of the relationship simply because she didn't like or trust Dallas Winston, and she had relayed that she didn't want her daughter—her one and only child—to end up making the same mistakes that she had.

Before Ella had a chance to respond to Evie, though, Mary sauntered back over, taking a seat beside her. Her lips were pulled up into a smile, a brightness to her eyes as she stared across the room at Soda. He was standing with Steve and Dallas, who were talking with a few other guys they knew. Ella scanned the area for Ponyboy, who had stepped out a few minutes ago to smoke a cigarette with one of his friends from school. She shrugged, figuring that he hadn't come back inside yet, and turned to face Mary, who had went back to picking at her basket of fries.

"You're lookin' mighty happy over there," Evie pointed out with a grin. "What's on your mind?"

Mary's cheeks flushed more, if that was even possible. "Oh, nothing," she answered quietly. "I was just thinking about . . . Soda and I."

Ella's brows raised. "How are you two doing?"

The younger girl's lips stretched. "We're good, real good actually." Compared to both Ella and Evie, Mary looked like she had just been given the greatest news of all. "It just feels so right with him," she continued on, a light tone to her voice. "We get each other without even having to, does that make sense to you guys?" Her eyes flickered. "I'm glad we found each other."

"Gee," Evie responded, stealing a fry from the basket. "You make it sound as though y'all are living in some kind of fairy tale." She licked her lips. "Must be somethin'. I'm happy for you an' him."

"Thanks."

Ella feigned a grin, Angela's words from earlier still playing at the forefront of her mind. There was something about them that had struck her wrong, as if Angela was trying to give her some underlying message, but then she figured that she was just looking too much into it. It was no secret that Ella was a little . . . insecure, but she wasn't a drama queen. Hell, Evie was right, she supposed—it was best just to just let it go and forget about it. Wasn't going to do her any good dwelling on something she couldn't even agree with.

But Mary's voice droned on from beside her. ". . . and since my birthday is next month, Soda and I were thinking about . . . maybe getting out of town or something."

Evie's eyes nearly popped. "Wait, hold up. What?"

Before Ella had a chance to hear the girl's response, Ponyboy caught her attention. He was standing by the door beckoning her over, a curious expression plastering his face. Ella politely excused herself, smoothing her skirt down as she stood up, making her way over toward the younger teen. Judging from the look in his eyes, she felt as if he was about to give her bad news, and she sincerely hoped that wasn't the case. The brisk air stung her skin through her jacket as she followed Ponyboy outside and over to the side of the building. Her fingers curled in her jacket pockets, her breath visible as she breathed in and out, trying to ease her thoughts.

"What's up?" she asked, trying to ignore the biting cold.

Ponyboy cupped his hands around a cigarette as he lit up. "I need to talk to you . . . about Dally."

Now that gained her attention. "Dally?" she repeated, confusion etched in her quivering voice. "Why?"

"Well, it's something I've been trying to figure out myself, Ella, but I think you ought to know." He took a breath, eyes lowering before rising to meet her own again. "A few days ago, he and I spoke about my book, and he . . . made this comment to me that, basically, it would have . . . saved a lot of trouble if he had . . . died that night . . . when he was—"

Ella shook her head, disbelief and shock written across her pale face. "I don't understand," she replied. "Why would he say that? What happened?"

Ponyboy sighed, knowing how upset the girl would get, but he felt that she did have a right to know what was going on, and more importantly, he just wanted to make sure that Dally was okay, at least, okay enough to be considered okay. His concern for the older hoodlum had been eating away at him since he had made that remark, and when Darry had suggested that Dally felt as though everyone was blaming him for Johnny's death—much like he was himself—Ponyboy felt even worse. Relaying all of this information to Ella felt almost . . . awkward, but he knew he had to. Besides, even though Darry had told him that it would be best for him to talk to Dally himself, he wanted to make sure that he was alright before even thinking to approach that particular topic with him again. Glory.

The older teen was standing with a perplexed look about her face, her eyes seemingly distant, as if she were trying to digest everything Ponyboy had just told her. Ella just didn't want to think about Dally like that, didn't want to consider the fact that he felt so . . . alone. Heck, she knew he was complex, knew that there were a lot of things about him that he would never tell—not even to her—and she had accepted that, had come to learn that certain things just weren't for her to ever know. She knew that discussing Johnny Cade was a sensitive subject, too, and she respected that, but did Dally really blame himself for Johnny Cade's death, and did he really feel that his friends did as well? The thought alone stung the girl right in the chest, and she considered her tough and hardened boyfriend for a moment, thinking about the cold and far away look in his glacier orbs that seemed to pierce her soul. She had never considered that he felt so alone before, so terribly alone . . .

"Do you want me to . . . talk to him?" she questioned, pursing her lips. "I could try."

Ponyboy shook his head. "No, I don't think that would be too hot of an idea." A pause. "Could you . . . just keep an eye on him?"

"Of course," she answered. "Of course I will."

* * *

Ella was something else, Dallas thought with a wry grin stretched across his lips. He hadn't expected anything from her for his birthday, but she had surprised him alright, surprised him real good. Now, usually, Dally Winston didn't bother to celebrate his birthday, simply because he just didn't care about it, didn't see it as anything overly important. Who cared about aging another year? Hell, it wasn't like his birthday had ever been positively looked at back at home, especially when he was a child, so caring about it then still meant nothing. The girls that he had dated in the past usually tried to win him over with sex, or something of the like, and if they found out about his birthday, it was usually the same ordeal, not that the blond-headed teen was complaining or anything, because he most certainly wasn't.

But Ella hadn't even attempted to so much as really kiss him that night, instead choosing to surprise him with the brown leather jacket he had slipped on—and boy howdy, but it sure felt better than the ripped up, stained jean one he'd been donning. It was mighty cold out, and hell, Dallas would be lying if he said the new jacket wasn't working wonders at keeping him from freezing his ass off any more than he had been earlier that night. Yeah, Ella was something alright, she was something else entirely, something he hadn't been expecting. Glory, but he had been hoping that . . . _maybe_ , she might decide to spread those pretty little legs of hers and put out for him, but . . . miraculously (for him, that is) he found more comfort in the jacket she had gotten him, not that he would tell her that.

"So, you like it?" Ella asked, a small smile on her face.

Dallas nodded, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he looked at her through the passenger side window. "Tuff enough," came the answer, and he smirked. "What prompted this idea, though?"

"You needed a better jacket," she replied, looking at him sheepishly. "It's freezing out, and you've been going around wearing that"—She frowned, nodding to his jean jacket, which was tossed beside her on the seat—"since the beginning of Fall."

"Oh, I see," he smarted. "You been lookin' out for me, sweets?"

Ella rolled her eyes. "Someone has to."

There was a pregnant pause, and Dallas froze. There was something in the tone of Ella's voice that had reminded him of Mrs. Curtis. His brows pressed together as he stared at his girlfriend, his cigarette held loosely between his index and middle finger, lips curving down. He had heard that tone of voice from Ella a few times before, but never that drastic, and hell, she had hardly said anything at all—three measly little words. Jesus Christ. He shook his head. Dallas had never done well with authoritative figures or overbearing motherly women; they had always made feel unnerved, babied, as if he were powerless to anything that was happening to or around him. But Mrs. Curtis had a particular way about her that Dallas had come to both respect and admire. Ella, on the other hand, wasn't Mrs. Curtis, and hell, she never could walk in that woman's shoes, but there was some bizarre reminder of her in the girl's voice, something that caused him to tense up for a moment. He wasn't sure that he liked it.

Still, he dismissed it, flicking his cigarette away. "Sure, toots." And then he leaned forward, pressing his face close to her own through the opened window. Hell, even though it was freezing out, the new jacket was already working wonders at shielding the brisk air from his skin. Too bad he had to step out of the truck to try it on. His eyes met Ella's, though, a mischievous look in them. "How 'bout we finish this night off with somethin' . . . a little more entertaining, sweets?"

The girl's eyes instantly widened at the comment, and Dallas smirked. "What do you mean?" she asked, sounding a bit nervous. Typical Ella. She was such a dope.

"I was thinkin' 'bout some real fun," he said, winking at her just to tease her all the more. "There's this club downtown, you know?" He leaned forward, moving closer to her again, his breath fanning her face as he spoke. "You know how to gamble, sweets?" His eyes had that devilish look to them, and Ella felt herself shrinking back a little. "What about a real party, huh? Some _real_ fun."

She took a breath. "We're not . . . twenty-one."

The statement was made so casually that Dallas almost laughed. Of course they weren't twenty-one, of course it was illegal as hell, but that was the idea, the thrill of it. Glory, but didn't Ella know anything about the meaning of fun? Hell, but he sure needed to crack that shell of hers and introduce her to the real world, because she seemed to be stuck and lost in her own one, sheltered away from everything and everyone else. He would show her a good time, a _real_ good time. Hadn't she said that she wanted to see things the way that he did, that she wanted to feel wild and free, or whatever-the-fuck-else? Well, this was a ticket to that supposed paradise, he figured, and even if she chose not to tag along with him, he would still end up going . . . after he dropped her off at her house, all safe and sound.

"'Course we ain't," he said, refraining from calling her a dumbass. "But I got me an ID that says I am, and well . . . I know a guy there that owes Shepard a favor, so . . . you can be that favor tonight." His lips curled back, revealing those small, sharp teeth. "Ain't nobody that has to know your real age."

This was against Ella's better judgment, not to mention her moral code. But there was something that was almost nagging at her to go, to get out and have some real fun, as Dallas had called it. And hell, he wasn't even coercing her so much as he was testing her. Ella knew that she could just say no and head home whenever she wanted, and even if Dallas was pissed, he would take her. But still, the itch to go remained, and Ella found that it was buried deep below her skin, a yearning to feel something exciting before she exploded from being under constant pressure. She bit her lip, turning away from Dallas for a moment to sort her thoughts, and when she looked back at him a moment later, there was a newfound look in her dark blue eyes, a curvature on the corners of her mouth.

"Okay," she breathed, nodding. "Okay."

Dally merely grinned, grim though it was. "Atta girl," he said, reaching in to tuck her hair behind her ear. He sent her a wink before making his way around to the driver's side, hopping in next to her, and starting the engine. "You just stick with me, sweets, and you'll be fine," he told her as they drove along, the lights illuminating the road and reflecting through the windshield. "Savvy?"

Ella nodded. "Savvy."

The night passed them by, and the last thing Ella really remembered was seeing her reflection staring back at her through the passenger side window. She had really let herself go that night, her mind eased for the first time in a long time as drink after drink was consumed. Dallas had kept his promise and made sure to stay by her side, keeping her in sight for the majority of the time they were there. Ella would be lying if she said she hadn't enjoyed herself, and that night with Dallas Winston had been quite the experience for her. Realistically, she didn't recall a lot of it, only that she had gambled, had gotten drunk, and ended up dancing across the bar, the music thundering in her ears as the room spun around her and the clock ticked down the time.

All she kept seeing was money being tossed out left and right, guys in cowboy boots, and girls with clothes that were at least two sizes too small, and then . . . there was her and Dallas.

. . . and everything was okay.

 _Oh you learn to use all your desperation  
_

 _'Til it works its way into your soul  
_

 _Then you find out that you slowly lose control_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the continuous support! It's sincerely appreciated! :3**


	30. Wild Night

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Van Morrison owns "Wild Night."**

 **(AndThatWasEnough owns Bridget Stevens.)**

* * *

 _And ev'rything looks so complete  
_

 _When you walk out on the street  
_

 _And the wind catches your feet  
_

 _And sends you flyin', cryin'_

 **November 18, 1966**

Frances poured some batter into the skillet, one hand placed on her hip as she stared at the forming pancake, her lips pulled into a line. She was excited that Ella was considering, really considering, on going to Berkeley in January. There was still a little over a month to go before she would leave, if she truly, wholeheartedly, decided that was what she was going to do. Frances was happy for her daughter, and even more than that—not that she would ever say it to the girl—but she was almost happy that she was getting away from that Dallas Winston. On the other hand, however, Ella had been happier than Frances had ever seen her, her eyes bright and full of excitement. The woman wasn't used to seeing her daughter seemingly so content, and she figured that whatever that blond-headed delinquent was doing, it had to be something right.

The thought made her shudder.

Then again, Ella was more like her than she realized. Frances could remember a time when she had her first taste of freedom, when there wasn't anyone telling her what to do, or pointing fingers at her, and breathing down her neck. Ella had always been dedicated to her, had always put her home life and school life first, before anything. She had learned the meaning of the word responsibility at a young age, and surprisingly, there was some part of Frances that wondered if she had been too pressing on her daughter, or so much that she had taken matters into her own hands and grown up several years too quickly. For the first time, Frances worried, strongly worried, about Ella's childhood, wondering if there was a way she could . . . fix things, only there wasn't, and she figured that, in some way, she owed Ella the respect of supporting her own choices, whether that included Dallas Winston in her life or not.

The sound of Ella's footsteps entering the kitchen caused Frances to turn around and face her. She was unable to miss the side of her lips, which were curved upward, a twinkle in her blue eyes. Frances shook her head a little, a smile forming on her mouth as she flipped the pancake over.

"Smells good," Ella commented, placing her bag on the table. "Pancakes?"

Frances nodded. "Thought you might like something to help you along with your decision."

There was a slight pause, and then Ella sighed. "I have a few weeks left to let them know if I'll be attending or not."

"I know," came the response, and Frances turned for a second to stare at her daughter. "Ella, what's the matter? What's troubling you?"

That was odd, Frances thought, considering how excited Ella had seemed just the night before, and she had sounded rather ecstatic about going to New York, maybe a little nervous, too, but that was to be expected. Ella had never been out of Tulsa before, and while Frances knew that New York would be an awfully drastic change for her, she almost wanted her to go. Oh, she would miss her like crazy, but she wanted nothing but the best for Ella, wanted her to have every wonderful experience in life, and if New York—Berkeley College—was one of those ripe experiences, Frances would be supportive every step of the way.

"It's just that . . ." Ella drew in a breath, running a hand through her straightened locks. "Well, I don't know. Cold feet, I reckon."

"Oh," Frances slightly waved her off. "Just think about how exciting it would be for you, El, don't you think?" She tossed the finished pancake onto a plate before pouring more batter into the pan. "What's changed since last night?"

Ella took a seat at the table, her fingers immediately drumming lightly on top. "Well, I guess I was just thinking about . . . our financial status."

The girl's mother felt her chest tighten. Well, it wasn't as if Ella had gotten in on a scholarship, but the school had generously agreed to help out with part of the tuition payments. Part of Ella felt a little uneasy with that, mostly because she was somewhat of a proud girl, and she hardly ever let anyone pay anything for her. Golly, but she still felt as if she owed Bridget Stevens money for all of that hair and makeup equipment she had paid for over a year ago for the homecoming dance. It was just one of those things that Ella couldn't let go of, no matter how hard to tried.

But she continued on, eyes on the table top. "How will I ever afford it? My paychecks have been going toward half of the bills, and I'll need some money for books and such."

Frances shook her head. "Don't worry about it, El." She sent her a small smile. "We'll manage."

The teen wanted to protest, but instead, she settled back in her chair. She thought about Dallas and his words to her from a few weeks ago. Things had seemed simpler than, and it wasn't even that long ago, although it sometimes felt like it was. Ella had been feeling pretty good for the past few weeks, her mind at ease, her thoughts no longer haywire and strung. Her days went by quickly with work, and her nights were a wonderful bliss of time spent with Dallas, doing whatever they found entertaining, which usually consisted of parties, drinking, finding . . . light trouble. But Ella had felt a fire inside of herself that had been ignited the first time Dally looked at her, really looked at her. She felt the wick of her soul suddenly burning, the desire to let loose consuming her. But Dally made her see the world in a new light, made her reconsider things she never even took the time to think about, and that's what she liked about him . . . loved about him.

"Will you be home tonight?"

Ella's eyes lifted as she looked at her mom. "Yeah." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Is it okay with you if Evie and Bridget stop by? And Mary? We're going out later, and—"

Frances chuckled. "Of course, Ella. I get it, you know." She flipped another pancake. "Hair, makeup, nails . . . the whole nine yards, right?"

The girl laughed. "Yeah, something like that."

Well, cheers to that big date Evie had been so looking forward to.

* * *

". . . and Mrs. Reid says that I'll need to pass that test with at least a B if I'm to stay above a C average this marking period," Two-Bit relayed, a serious look on his face. "Other than that, kid, I think I'm doin' alright, you know, considering that I never really cared to apply myself."

Ponyboy nodded, chewing away at his candy bar. Of all the subjects Two-Bit did well in, he could just never get the gist of mathematics. Well, that wasn't entirely true, the younger teen thought, he did the basics quite well, understood different concepts just fine, however, when it came to different techniques and the like, Two-Bit just . . . lost it. So Ponyboy figured that they ought to stick to one lesson at a time and work one on one with the subject before moving ahead any more. It seemed to make their tutoring sessions much easier for both parties, and it wasn't as worrisome for Ponyboy, who was trying to work on his own schoolwork.

"You want to go over the lesson this weekend?" he offered, eyes shifting as he glanced over at the older teen. "You could just stop by, if you want, it's no big deal."

Two-Bit looked thoughtful for a moment, before suddenly nodding. "Sure, kid. Fair enough." And then a smile curved his lips upright, gray eyes turning bright. "Me an' Bee are going on this massive date tonight with—"

"Everyone else," Ponyboy finished, shooting him a rare grin. "Soda was sayin' something about that a few days ago."

The older teen chuckled. "Yeah, I hear Evie's been hounding ol' Steve about it since . . . hell, some time last Summer." He shook his head. "Can you believe that gal?" But, before Ponyboy could response, he was already continuing on. "Should be somethin' to see Bee and Evie together again, 'specially after that catastrophe with that homecoming dance last year."

"I thought they were getting along now."

Two-Bit waved a hand. "Oh, shoot, kid, they do. It ain't that," he replied, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. "I just meant because of their social classes." He paused for a moment, shaking his head as if he were dismissing a silent thought. "You know somethin', Ponykid, things have definitely been changin' 'round here, I don't know if you've really noticed—"

"I know what you mean," came the immediate response, and Ponyboy cocked an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "You ever think that you're involved some way, too?" At the older boy's perplexed expression, he merely continued speaking. "Well, there's you and Bridget, and Soda and Mary now."

There was a brief silence as Two-Bit lit his cigarette, eyes distant as he stared across the lot. "You know something, I never considered that, kid. I mean, hell, I guess I have . . . but I ain't ever looked at it as something that would be part of somethin' bigger."

"Reckon so."

Two-Bit considered that concept for a moment, wondering if he and Bee Stevens were really part of something that could potentially change the outlook of others. And then there was Sodapop and Mary, of course, who strongly redefined the idea of dating someone way out of your league. But Two-Bit, like Ponyboy, wasn't blind to the movements and such going on around them, wasn't oblivious to the changes that were beginning to take place and come into play. He remembered the kid saying something about a run-in with Randy Adderson—that Soc fellow who was friends with Bob Sheldon or something—back in the Summer. Two-Bit didn't really know the guy too well, only seen him a few times during school a year or so back, and he never really struck the chord as a typical Soc. Bee was like that, too—she was different, very different.

Two-Bit wondered what people would really be like if there weren't such a thing as labels. He was sure everyone would be quite different, expression wise, and it was almost hard, even though it was easy, to picture an environment like that. So, to save his mind from a headache, he switched the topic over to something that he'd been curious about.

"How's the issue with Dally and your book?"

Ponyboy seemed to stiffen for a second, one that Two-Bit hadn't missed. "I ain't really sure, if you want the truth. I spoke to Darry and Ella about it, asked her to keep an eye on him, but other than that, I ain't said anything to Dally, and I know I ought to." A sigh. "I just don't—"

"Dunno what to say?" Two-Bit guessed. "Hell, I suppose I wouldn't either, kid." And then he turned to his side, resting one arm on the top of his car. "You know what, though? It's your book, Ponyboy, and think of it this way . . . you was just as much a part of those events last year that Dally was, and y'all got to reach some kinda agreement one way or the other." He licked his lips, voice coming out more sincere than Ponyboy ever heard it. "Listen here, I know you feel guilty about not telling Dallas about his . . . ending in the book, but y'all both went through a lot, kid, and here's the thing . . . Johnny meant a lot to both of you's, and some way, some how, you an' him need to reconcile with what happened." Before the younger teen could protest, Two-Bit quickly continued. "I don't mean you so much, Ponyboy, but you are the only one who's gonna get through to Dally, and if I was you, I'd take that risk."

* * *

Dallas lazily flicked his ashes, eyes squinted a little as he stared across the restaurant. The Dingo wasn't usually all that busy on a Friday afternoon, for everyone liked to pile in during the evening hours and cause a ruckus then. The white-haired teen didn't mind the quiet, more subtle, work environment all that much, although he preferred the wildness it brought on in the later hours. Dallas lived for action, though, drew trouble in like a magnet, and found danger in most anything. But, for once, he found the more relaxed atmosphere of the Dingo to be settling.

Across from him, Tim Shepard droned on about some business he'd taken care of with the Tiber Street Tigers the other day, something about some of the boys pulling away and whatnot. Dallas wasn't all that interested—well, he was, but he didn't care about some pansy ass kids breaking away from the gangs around town. What he was interested in, however, was how things were becoming . . . more acceptable in society. The other day, for example, he'd noticed a few preppy kids loitering around the old discount store chatting with some younger greasers. He had cocked an eyebrow, surprised that none of them had started in on the other, but didn't think too much on it afterward.

". . . but that's the scoop," Tim said, breathing out a sigh. "You know, I've been thinkin' about it an' all, and I wonder what's gonna become of those kids in the future."

The blond shot him a look. "What are you talkin' 'bout?"

For all he'd known him, Dally was surprised to hear Tim speaking about anything that pertained to the future. Hell, Tim was a real wild cat, the guy you would find hiding out in the downtown alleyways, stirring up trouble, leading his gang, and finding trouble with a capital T anywhere that he could—he and Dally were alike in that way. But Dally had never heard Tim Shepard—of all people, no less—bother to concern himself with the future, or what would become of anyone, for that matter. The remark had stirred him, though, and he found himself glaring at the older hood.

Tim merely leaned back in the booth casually. "The gangs, man. Hell, you know what Curly told me the other day?" He lit up a cigarette, talking while it dangled from his bottom lip. "Told me that Ronnie Stenson—you know him, right?—was leaving the Tigers. His brother, Artie, is second in command." There was strange sound to his voice, one that unnerved the younger teen. "The leaders are getting mighty lazy, too. It used to be about business and shit, but it's nothing now, nothing but a load of shit."

Dallas stubbed his cigarette out on the table, ignoring the waitress who glared at him from behind the counter. "So what?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ronnie's always been a little pussy, so that ain't exactly surprising." His expression only soured. "What's got your panties in a bunch anyway, huh? You worried about some stupid kids—"

"Fuck no," the dark-haired boy bit out, hand hitting the table. "Shit, Dal, take a look around you, would ya?" There was a slight growl to his usual stern voice. "Shit's dying out. _We're_ dyin' out."

The response caused the blond to almost freeze in his spot. He had only been paying so little attention to what was happening around town regarding the changes, but there were some things that he hadn't been all that oblivious to. Dallas could understand why Tim would be pissed, hell he was, too, and that was because guys like them always counted on their gangs to keep things in line. They all had their own territories, set their own ground rules, and what have you, so if there weren't any gangs or nothin', then what was . . . there to do? What was there to fight for and survive for and work for? Dallas had always involved himself in the know, always knew what the hell was going on, but having this news thrown in his face was fucked up—well, to him it was.

"Yeah?" he said, tone brazen. "Did your dipshit brother tell you that, too?"

Tim jarred his foot out under the table, purposely kicking the teen in the shin. "Fuck you, Winston," he spit. "Curly is a fucking idiot, but this ain't comin' from him, and I know damn well that you know that, too, so quit acting like a dumb fuck."

Dallas's nose wrinkled. "I ain't the one who's crying the blues over this shit."

Before Tim could respond, the door banged open, and he caught sight of Curly shuffling inside, making his way through a small group of people who were crowding the entrance. The look on his face was pointed as he quickened his pace back to where Tim and Dallas were seated. Tim could tell by the looming expression on his kid brother's face that something was wrong, but unlike Curly, he remained stony and more uncaring.

"The hell are you doin' here, kid?" he asked instead, eyeing his brother with contempt.

Curly jammed his hands in his pockets. "Did you hear about Jones?" he inquired, brows pressing closer together. "He got arrested this afternoon . . . he shot a cop."

Dallas almost lost his marbles right there, but instead kept a poker face. "Where the hell did you hear that?" he asked, a scrutinizing look on his face.

"Cop dead?" Tim asked at the same time, shooting a look at the blond hood across from him. His own expression was quite similar, for neither boy had heard the apparent news. "Who told you that?"

The younger teen sneered a bit. "Cop ain't dead," he answered first, tone clipped. "But some guys were talkin' about it, thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah, but which guys?" Tim inquired, clearly aggravated. He didn't like beating around the bush, and it pissed him off when Curly danced around information like he was trying to keep everyone on their toes only to be the center of attention for a minute or so. "If you don't start talkin'—"

But Curly was already beginning to speak, sensing his older brother's irritation. "Dylan Jones," came the unexpected response, and Dallas cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "Dylan was tellin' everyone about it, I guess. News spreads quickly around here, don't it?" He smirked, though there was nothing settling about it. "One thing happens, and there's a wildfire following it, especially with those damn flower kids starting to congest this place."

Dallas rolled his eyes at the comment. Yeah, he'd been hearing news about some free love and peace movement that honestly made him want to rip his ears off. Well, he could offer Tim some credit where it was due—whatever these newcomers were (hippies?), he didn't like it, didn't like them, and it was blatantly evident that Curly didn't, either. He felt as though Tim's words were beginning to sink in, that perhaps things really were changing. Well, if Daxon Jones, leader of the River Kings, was out of the picture, who would be his second in command? The echo of the gangs dying out and becoming a thing of the past seemed to haunt the blond's mind—he just couldn't fathom it.

Fuck this shit.

* * *

"Ouch!" Bridget yelped as Evie tried (more like failed) to run a brush through her hair. "Ow, Evie, not so hard." Her face was scrunched up in pain, teeth pressing together hardly. "Evie!"

The brunette frowned at her through Ella's mirror. "Well, would ya quit moving around so much?" She huffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. "The more you move, the worse it's gonna be, Stevens!" She tossed the brush aside, deciding to separate the girl's hair so that it was easier to work with. "Hell, I don't know how in the hell you take care of this . . . mane."

Bridget glared back her. "I barely get by . . . Martin."

Ella shook her head at them, casually flipping through a fashion magazine. Evie had brought a few things for fun, other than just accessories, for the girls to browse through while they got ready for the "masterpiece date" that Evie had been trying to put in the works since the Summer. Beside her, Mary bit into a candy bar, wiggling her wet toenails around as she smiled at the rosy color Evie had painted them for her.

"There," Evie said with an almost breathy growl. She shook her head. "I used to think Ella's hair alone was a challenge, but I got to admit, Stevens, yours really takes the cake." She jerked her head back toward Ella. "And that's not saying much for either of ya."

Ella rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Well, I guess that's why we keep you around, Evie." And despite the fake snark in her voice, the brown-haired girl tossed her a glare for a good measure. Evie played along, pretending to be hurt by the older girl's words, but chuckled anyway. "So, what's the plan?" Ella continued, looking across her small room at the mirror to capture both Bridget's and Evie's attention.

"Well," Evie began, tugging a piece of Bridget's hair as she ran the brush through it, the curls starting to fluff up and detangle, "I was thinkin', since we're all meeting at the Dingo, we could go to the club downtown, you know, the one you and Dallas went to, Ella . . . ?"

At the same time Bridget's brows shot up at that information, Mary quietly asked, "You and Dallas went to a downtown club?" Her expression contracted to bafflement. "I thought you had to be twenty-one to get into those."

The comment was left to dangle in the air as Ella felt her chest clamp. She had only ever relayed to Evie about her and Dally parading around during the nights doing this and that. Evie, although not the least bit cynical, was somewhat surprised, telling her friend to be careful. But Ella was, she always was, and she always made sure to come home at a . . . somewhat decent hour. The thing was, she had been having more fun than she ever had in her life, and for the first time, she felt wild and careless, and there was some part of her that desperately craved that over anything. Ella knew her limits, though, and she was smart enough not to let Dallas take advantage of her vulnerabilities. There was always a piece of her that felt rather conflicted, though, and the more she thought about Dallas and the things they had done together, the more she felt confident enough to really let go with him.

"Well, you do," she replied, biting her lower lip.

Evie's voice broke the awkward silence that followed Ella's reply. "Well, Stevie and I used to do some wicked stuff when we first got together." Her lips pursed. "Okay, well, not all that crazy, but I did . . . go with him when he stole some hubcaps, played lookout." Her gaze drifted along each of them. "And that stays with us, I mean it."

"Of course," Bridget said lowly. Next to Evie and Ella, she felt like a saint, although that wasn't to say that she hadn't been sneaky with Two-Bit, either. She had, but only Ella and Evie knew about those escapades and the secret meetings that had occurred before they initially got together. Okay, so maybe Bridget Stevens wasn't all that innocent, either, but she didn't exactly feel all that comfortable admitting those things around Mary DeVaney, and it wasn't because she disliked the girl—on the contrary—but they didn't know each other well enough, in Bridget's opinion, to really divulge their secrets to one another. At that particular moment, Bridget decided she ought to give Cathy Carlson a call; it had been some time since she'd spoken to her. She quickly changed the subject, though. "So, what is everyone wearing tonight?"

It was Mary who answered first. "I decided to keep things . . . simple. I didn't want to go too overboard with my outfit, so I only brought a causal dress."

"Well, let's see!" Evie said excitedly, running the hot iron over Bridget's locks, the curlers in her own hair tightly wound in.

Mary's cheeks flushed as she made her way around Ella's bed to grab her bag. A moment later, she had pulled out a warm caramel colored dress, a white shawl wrapped around it. It was plain but pretty, and along with it, the girl had a pair of brown kitten heels. She held it up for the other three girls to inspect, each of them smiling and making comments of approval.

"What about you, Ella?" Bridget asked. "What are you wearing?"

The older girl gave a half shrug. "Well, I didn't exactly pick anything special, but I was thinking that dark dress I have"—She stood up, walking toward her closet—"could work." She grabbed the hanger, pulling it out and revealing a rather delicate piece. The material was appropriate for the cooler weather, though, and the sleeves were long. The neck line was rather low, and Evie's eyes widened as she took the number in. "What do you think?" Ella asked, sounding a little embarrassed.

Evie grinned. "I like it, like it just fine." She smirked. "Well, I got a little piece of my own, one that I think will captivate Steve for the whole night." She giggled. "I don't want him to be able to take his eyes off of me."

Bridget snorted. "When can he?"

"You know," Evie continued, "I think we should do this more often, don't y'all think?"

Ella nodded as Bridget immediately agreed. It was rare when they all could get together, and Bridget considered Cathy again, thinking that it would be more fun if she was around, too. Perhaps, she and Mary could get along. She supposed they had a few things in common, but then again, they all did in one way or the other.

"Well," she said, a lightness to her voice, "we could always just have fun and dress up for each other."

Her comment was followed by a chorus of laughter.

* * *

Ella was grinning as she watched Two-Bit twirl Bridget around, both of their faces reflecting sheer contentment as they moved with each other so effortlessly. Glory, but Ella figured that, of all the couples swarming the place that night, those two looked the most relaxed around one another. They hadn't been at the club all that long, having met up at the Dingo first, but Dallas and Steve had ventured off to play a game of poker, leaving Evie and Ella seated by the bar. The two of them were receiving odd looks from some older folks gathered around, but nobody hassled them or anything, and besides, most of them were too drunk to do so, or even care. Other than that, Ella had been there a few times already over the past week or so with Dallas, and most people didn't care to tangle with him.

Golly, but the girl remembered the last time she and Dallas went to a bar and some guy made a remark about how fitting her dress was. His face was meant with her boyfriend's fist not even seconds later, and then there was a fight which ended with them getting kicked out. Ella remembered running to the truck while trying to keep up with Dallas, the alcohol in her system running sky high. She could hardly recall Dallas flooring it out of there, the police sirens in the distance seeming to grow closer and closer until they pulled off into a back alley and sat in silence until Dally thought it was safe enough to leave.

They had talked for a while, which ended up in a heated make out session, one where Dally had tried getting some, but ultimately got shot down. Ella always kept some limits, despite knowing how much it seemed to irritate Dally. And while she liked him, possibly even . . . loved him, that part of herself was still important to her, and she figured that her virtue was too valuable to be tossed away in the driver's seat of an old beaten up truck in a downtown alleyway where anyone could have witnessed it. No, she wanted that particular moment to be special, not something to be done and forgotten about. But, despite all that, Ella would be lying if she said she didn't want to, didn't want to go all the way with Dallas—it was something she had been considering for a while. Surprisingly, Dally had been treating her rather good, better than usual, and she hoped it wasn't all just a ploy to get what he wanted.

"El," Evie's voice rang out, breaking her thoughts. "You look far away. You alright?"

The older teen nodded quickly. "Yeah, just thinking." She took a sip of her drink. "Evie, can I ask you something?"

Evie's brows furrowed. "Of course."

There was a brief silence as Ella breathed in and out slowly, lips pursing at the thoughts running through her head. "Um, is there . . . anything I should expect . . . with . . ." She swallowed, cheeks beginning to tint red. "You know . . ."

It took a second before realization dawned on her friend's face. "Oh," she said casual like, and then shrugged her shoulders. "Just be yourself, I guess," came the answer. "Don't . . . well, you know, don't do anything you ain't comfortable with." And then she leaned forward just a little. "Ella, are you sure you're okay, though? I mean—"

But Ella waved her off. "No, I'm fine." A smile spread across her lips. "Thanks, Evie."

And just as the words escaped her mouth, a pair of arms slithered around her waist, followed by warm lips pressing to the side of her neck. She knew immediately, without having to look, that it was Dallas, and as she turned her head just a little to glance at him, she felt his hair tickle the side of her face. That devilish smirk was planted on his sinful lips, an impish reflection evident in his glacier orbs as he stared into her own intently. Ella felt goosebumps forming across her skin, a reaction she always had when Dallas looked at her like that. Glory.

"Hey, sweets," he greeted, his fingers moving against her lower stomach. She felt his chest pressing against her back as he shifted behind her, his warm breath fanning the side of her face. Dallas glanced once at the empty glasses between Ella and Evie, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Having fun?"

Evie snorted as a giggle bubbled from Ella's throat. "Oh, yeah," she answered lightly. "Without you or Steve around, Evie and I had to find a way to entertain ourselves, you know?"

"I'll bet," Steve smarted as he approached the trio, reaching for Evie's unfinished drink. He kissed her cheek, one hand resting against her lower back as he stood beside the stool she was seated on. "Won a good amount of dough . . ." he went on to say, a small smile on his mouth.

The blond's lips curved ever so little, and he tilted his chin so that his mouth was beside Ella's ear. "You know, I was thinkin' that we could . . . get outta here for a while . . . you an' me . . . "

Ella licked her lips as she thought about the suggestion. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

". . . and I was thinkin', with Thanksgiving and all coming up, we could—"

Mary shook her head, coming to a stop in front of her boyfriend, a smile dancing on her lips. "Soda, stop," she said, chuckling lightly. She took his other hand in hers, grinning up at him. "You have all of these wonderful ideas, and I love them," she continued. "I love you." Their eyes met. "But you don't need to do all of this for me, you know that?" A second later, her arms were draped around his neck as she stood on her tiptoes, relishing in the feeling of his hands snaking around her waist. "But yes, I would love to spend Thanksgiving with you and your family . . . if it's alright with them, of course."

"Of course it is," Soda replied. Hell, Darry had been the one to suggest inviting Mary, and while Soda had been a little wary at first, especially where in concerned Mary's aunt, he decided to ask anyway, figuring that Mary could choose for herself. Ponyboy hadn't seemed to mind all that much about his girlfriend spending the day with them, so Soda figured that counted as something. In fact, come to think about it, Ponyboy and Mary seemed to get along rather well, which was surprising to both Soda and Darry. Anyway, Soda just wanted to share everything with this girl. He had been surprised to learn that Aunt Vera, despite being how she was, didn't like doing much for the holidays. Mary had lived a life of utter seclusion, and Soda just wanted to brighten it a little, show her the true spirit of celebrating and all of that. "I just want you to be happy, darlin'."

And the dark-haired girl grinned, leaning in to kiss his lips. "I am happy, Soda, with you."

Those words couldn't have made Soda Curtis any more happier than he was right then. He knew that he wasn't the perfect guy, despite what girls loved to believe about him. Oh, he had done some lousy things in the past, had said some nasty things, too. He knew that he was good-looking, and sometimes, he used his charisma to his advantage, even fooling around with different girls just because he could, and he had never felt bad about it. But looking at Mary had . . . changed his perspective of things. Hell, he thought he had something good with Sandy, and maybe he had, but what he felt with Mary DeVaney was stronger than anything he had ever internally felt with his ex-girlfriend, not that he was trying to compare the two or anything like that. It was just that Mary had this effect on him, something that he couldn't quite explain or put into words, and whenever she looked at him, he felt as if he were in a different place, a better place, and it was all because of her. Hell, Soda had never really counted his lucky blessings in that particular department, as girls always came to him without any effort on his part, but Mary was different, and with her, he felt fortunate.

"Well," he said, looking into her gorgeous brown eyes, "you make me happy, Mary. Real happy."

And when he kissed her that time, holding her close to him, Soda was sure that there was no better place on Earth that was suited just for him. There was nothing comparable to their first kiss together, but hell, each one that followed afterward sure came close.

Mary pulled away after a moment, a small twinkle in her eyes. "Should I bring anything, then?"

"You're coming?" he asked, sounding as excited as he looked.

She nodded. "Soda, I wouldn't miss it for anything."

He grinned. "Well, how about . . . just yourself and that pretty smile of yours, yeah?"

"I can do that," came the response, and she giggled. "Remember how we were talking about . . . going away for a weekend . . . together?"

Soda shook his head in affirmation. "Sure do." His brows pressed together. "Your birthday ain't for another few weeks, though."

"I know," she said quietly. "I was just wondering if you still wanted to—"

"Of course I do," he replied earnestly. And then he looked at her closely. "What's on your mind?"

Mary shrugged. Truthfully, she was looking forward to being alone with Soda, something that they never really had a chance to do. With all the disapproval from her aunt throughout the past few months, and dealing with the overwhelming mishaps, Mary just wanted . . . to spend time with Soda, to be alone with him and not have to worry about the opinions of others. She had never met anyone quite like him, never felt so sure of anything in her entire life. Was she thinking too hard? Is this what it felt like to be in love with someone? Mary loved Soda Curtis, that she was certain of, and there were moments, when she was by herself and lost in her own thoughts, that she could picture herself with him, imagine an entire future with him.

"Nothing particularly," she answered. "Just looking forward to being with you, that's all."

Soda cracked a smile at her words. This girl surely was something. Something special.

* * *

Turns out that Dallas didn't have anything real special in mind. He and Ella had aimlessly drove around for a while before ultimately ending up at Buck's place. It was rather late—later than usual—but Ella found that she didn't care all that much. Instead, Ella had been enjoying her time with her boyfriend that night, deciding to forget about everything else for the time being and just let loose. Dally seemed to enjoy her more like that, not that Ella was really counting that toward anything. But still. The night air was chilly against Ella's petite frame, and as she and Dally entered the roadhouse, she felt content under his arm, which rested heavily around her shoulders. She breathed in, consumed by his scent and the smell of heavy nicotine, smells that had started comforting her months ago.

The bar was practically vacated, save for a few lone stragglers, but nobody paid the two teenagers any mind as they made their way up the stairs. Ella blinked, body still slightly intoxicated from the few drinks she had consumed earlier that evening. She didn't mind as Dally tugged her along to his room, immediately kicking the door shut behind them after they entered. The window was still cracked, a slight breeze drifting in from the outside and giving the room a vague chill. But that was Dallas, and Ella had grown accustomed to him and his ways a while back.

Ella kicked her shoes off before hopping onto the bed, her eyes landing on the ceiling as her back relaxed against the mattress. Well, the mattress itself wasn't all that comfortable, but Ella was really too content to care. She watched as Dally lit a cigarette, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he smoked in silence. Ella closed her eyes for a moment, a million and one thoughts crossing her mind as she considered her and Dallas. Her tongue moved between her lips before she pulled her bottom lip through her teeth, eyes slitting open as she looked at the back of her boyfriend. She watched him stub his finished cigarette out in the chipped ashtray beside himself, before he turned to his side, eyes meeting her own.

It was at this moment that Ella felt that spark inside of her ignite, the one lone flame dancing upon the wick which once felt nothing but cool. But ever since Dallas Winston had become a part of her life—a more prodigious part of her life—she felt nothing but warm and excited, her body seeming to crave that thrill that he presented. With glazed over eyes, Ella shifted so that she was sitting up on her knees, and with one hand wrapping around his neck, she pulled Dally toward her, their lips meeting a second later.

Dallas cocked an eyebrow at her when he felt her hands tugging at his shirt, his lips curving up as he sent her a rare grin. He could smell the alcohol on her breath mingling in with her perfume, and he could only stare at her as she continued to initiate things. Her hands were slightly shaking as she moved them down his bare chest, eyes downward as she looked anywhere but directly at him. Well, he thought, staring at her, Ella had always been rather . . . shy.

"Dally," she said, voice barely audible. It took a moment before she actually looked up at him, cheeks dusted pink, lips parted, and eyes wide. She swallowed. "I—"

"Nervous, sweets?" he guessed, wrapping an arm around her waist, shifting around so that their faces were only inches apart.

But Ella didn't need to answer aloud, for the look in her eyes said everything. She let Dallas kiss her that time, her heart pounding as he eased her down, her back touching the mattress seconds later. Her eyes slipped closed as Dallas kissed her good and long, her body instantly coming alive as his mouth moved expertly against her own, hands roaming along her body as breathy moans fell from her lips.

She didn't stop him that time, instead allowing herself to feel and act only on instinct, her body reacting to his in ways that she never even knew were possible.

And for the first time, Ella felt truly alive.

 _Wild night, is calling  
_

 _The wild night is calling  
_

 _C'mon out and dance, c'mon out and make romance  
_

 _C'mon out and dance, c'mon out make romance_

* * *

 **Thirty chapters, y'all!**

 **Thank you for all of the continuous support and enthusiasm for this story! It's very much appreciated! :3**


	31. It Would Break Your Heart

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Gaslight Anthem owns "Break Your Heart."**

* * *

 _It would break your heart, if you knew me well  
_

 _See, I have run so far that I've lost myself  
_

 _And there are things I have seen that I never will tell  
_

 _They drove me out of my mind and inside of myself_

 **November 24, 1966**

Ella woke early Thursday morning, the sun not even fully risen. Her eyes cracked open, and she blinked once, vision coming into focus as she listened to the soft snores coming from beside her. She wiggled around just a little under the weight of Dallas's arm, his body heat radiating straight into her and keeping her warm. Her head turned to the side as she took in his sleeping form, his lashes resting on his cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly, hair shaggy and unkempt. But Ella found herself smiling, deciding that Dallas looked better without a frown on his mouth, or lines of worry indented into his otherwise hardened face. He appeared almost peaceful, his skin smooth looking as the first rays of sun began drifting through Ella's front window, shadowing across the blond.

It was Thanksgiving, a day which Ella hadn't been looking forward to all that much. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy the holiday, or the fact that she didn't have to work, but her mother would be volunteering at the Church for a few hours while her daughter stayed at home to prepare the rest of the meal. It wasn't a big deal, or a hard task, and truthfully, Ella enjoyed cooking, but there was just something that she felt was missing. Well, at least she had the Curtis family to look forward to later that day. She had promised Dallas that she would stop by for a little while, even making a batch of cookies for the brothers. Ella's mother didn't have a problem, so long as she had dinner at home, which is exactly what Ella planned to do. Besides, she figured it would be a nice gesture to stop in and say hello to her friends. Also, she and Ponyboy hadn't seen much of each other, and she had been meaning to talk to him, catch up on things and whatnot.

Beside her, Dallas stirred, and Ella grinned as their eyes met, sleep still woven into Dallas's. It took him only a moment to realize where he was, but when he did, he simply reached up onto the night table to retrieve his pack of cigarettes. Ella watched him as he lit up, the sheet sliding down his body and revealing his naked torso. Tiny goosebumps appeared across his skin, the hairs on his chest standing as the cool air brushed against them—but that was the thing with Dallas, Ella had come to realize, he couldn't sleep without a window cracked, freezing outside or not.

"Your mother home?" he asked, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

Ella's gaze flickered to her clock, and she shook her head. "She's volunteering at the Church today," came the answer. "Why?"

"Just askin'," he responded, and tapped his ashes into the tray beside himself. He looked at the girl next to him in bed—her bed—taking in her sleepy countenance and half-lidded eyes. There were faint lines on her cheek from where she slept on her hand again, and there was a small amount of gunk in the corner of her eye. Glory, but he couldn't believe that he had . . . fooled around with Ella Mitchell, his girl or not. He remembered last Saturday waking up to her beside him in bed, her petite frame snug against his own, her head resting on the space between his shoulder and chest, her face tilted so that her nose was aimed toward his neck. She had gone out like a light that night, and the morning after, she had been quiet and reserved. But Dallas expected that from her, fully expected it. But since then, things between them had only escalated, and no longer did Ella act shyly afterward. He nodded to her. "You got shit in your eyes."

The girl's cheeks tinted as she reached up and wiped at her eyes, forgetting all about the sheet that was concealing her from his view—not like it mattered, though. It slipped down, one of her breasts just visible enough that Dallas cocked an eyebrow, mouth pooling at the sight. Damn, but for being a dope, Ella wasn't half bad looking, once you got passed the heavy bulk of clothes she liked to adorn. Other than that, though, Dally wasn't complaining. He stubbed his cigarette out, turning his body just a little as he wrapped an arm around Ella's waist, drawing her body to his as he eased back against the mattress, her eyes broadening as he moved over her. He liked her like this, he decided, hair wild and crazy looking, face free of that shit that she thought made her look good, and her body pressed hotly against his own.

A light moan fell from her mouth as he connected their lips, her arms snaking around his neck as she eased him closer to her, her upper body pressing closer to his as her back arched. There was something about Ella that Dallas couldn't get enough of, and he found that when they were together, he was drawn to her. Perhaps it was the smell of her perfume that attracted him, or the subtle looks she would give him as she twiddled her fingers around, or maybe it was how she looked at him in general. Fuckin' Dopey Ella. She was trouble, and he was drawn to trouble like a moth to a flame. His lips moved against hers expertly, her legs wrapping around his hips as her hands moved up into his hair, fingers moving through his scalp before he pulled away from her for a moment.

"What time is your old lady comin' home?"

Ella made a face. "Around noon, but I have to prepare dinner." Her voice was low and breathy as she spoke, eyes on his. "It's only going to be us, and I reckon we'll eat around three, so I'll meet you at Ponyboy's later, if you want."

"Sounds like a plan, sweets," he replied, and kissed her again.

* * *

Ponyboy scrubbed away at the iron skillet, the bacon grease not wanting to come off. He made a face as he reached for the spatula he had just washed off to try and dig off the reminisce. Glory, but he hated having to wash the dishes, but then again, he, Soda, and Darry had a rule that whoever was up first made breakfast, and the other two were on dish duty. It would have been Soda and Ponyboy together, but he and Darry had gone off to the game, leaving Ponyboy home to clean up. Darry already had the turkey in the oven, the smell wafting throughout the kitchen and straight into the teen's nostrils. Pony couldn't deny that his eldest brother was one helluva cook, not that he or Soda couldn't whip up some good food, but Darry was blessed with the skills their mother once possessed.

With a frustrated sigh, Ponyboy rinsed the skillet out, swishing the water around and dumping it out before doing so one or two times more. Well, he thought with contempt, that ought to do it—not that he could ever clean up as well as Darry, either. No, Darry had that domesticated side that he also shared with their mother, whereas Ponyboy and Sodapop were more or less like their father in that particular department—always leaving things around and getting to them later.

Placing the last plate on the drying rack, the teen cleaned the sink, shaking the dish rag out and laying it out to dry across the edge of the dish rack. Well, it wouldn't have mattered anyway if he'd gotten up earlier, because Darry told him to stay inside. He was still getting over a nasty cold, even stayed home from school Tuesday and Wednesday because of it. Two-Bit had brought his schoolwork home to him, telling him not to worry about tutoring until he was feeling better. Ponyboy couldn't believe that they were already into the second marking period, and a thought crossed his mind as he remembered a year back when Ella and Dally were still in the early stages of their own torturing sessions. Hell, it seemed like forever ago now, and the teen recalled Dally strongly disliking the girl. It was odd, he thought, to consider the fact that they had been a thing for three months now.

Just as he began peeling some potatoes, the front door banged open, and the sound of heavy boots making their way across the floor caused him to freeze up for a moment. Usually, the guys always announced themselves, unless it was Dallas, so Ponyboy waited until whoever had strode inside presented themselves, and he didn't wait all that long. He visibly relaxed when he realized that his assumptions were correct—it was Dallas, and he looked like he was almost frozen solid.

"Did you walk here?" Ponyboy asked, eyebrow quirking as he stared across the room at the blond. His hands were jammed in the pockets of the jacket Ella had gotten him for his birthday, his hair a mess as if the wind had grazed through it. "Dal?"

The older boy nodded, his face hard. "Walked to Buck's to get the truck so I could leave it at Ella's place, you know, and I walked back here."

"It's freezing out," came the response, and Dallas rolled his eyes.

"No shit, stupid," he said briskly. "That's why I left Dopey the truck, so she didn't have to walk here." A quick string of profanities fells from his mouth. "Her old lady has the car today, and I figured she could drive the truck over here later this evening."

Ponyboy went back to peeling the potatoes, his countenance blank. "Y'all have plans tonight?"

Dallas was quiet for a moment as he made his way around the kitchen, heading toward the fridge. He dug around inside until he found a case of beer that Two-Bit had so generously picked up the other day, going on that he felt somewhat obligated to pay ol' Darry back. It was funny, Ponyboy thought, but in their house, they shopped so that their friends could eat. He remembered his mother taking him to the grocery store when he was younger just so she could ask him what the boys liked to eat, especially Johnny and Dallas. She cared for everyone, always making sure that there was something in the house that they liked to munch on. But everyone was a fan of her infamous chocolate cake, and even to this day, it was gobbled up fairly quick.

After taking a good swig of his beer, Dallas answered. "Gonna take her to the ranch for a while. I don't think she's ever seen it at night before, not this time of year anyway." An almost noticeable smirk crossed his lips. "You ever see Buck's house, kid? Not the roadhouse, the ranch, around this time of year?" When the younger teen shook his head, Dally continued, taking a seat at the table beside him, his can hitting the top with a soft thud. "Well, see, Buck's family is kinda out there anyway, but they have this thing where they dig decorating for Christmas the day before Thanksgiving, just so's they can light it all up Thanksgiving night. Black Friday ain't the opening of the season for them, Thanksgiving night is." He let out a wry chuckle. "Figured I oughtta let Ella see it. She digs the ranch."

"She ever ride a horse before?"

There was a vulgar comment on the tip of the blond's tongue, but he bit it back, deciding that he ought to save the kid's sanity at least a little. Jesus H. Christ, but the thought alone of him and Ella fooling around would probably cause him to empty his guts out on the kitchen floor. Nah, Dally concluded that he would keep his snide remarks about Ella riding him out of the conversation. He remembered the first time she had met him at the stables, a confident look on her face, until he had basically coerced her into riding Artemis with him. She had been so terrified that she would fall off, or that the horse would buck them off, or whatever, but he also remembered how content she looked when they were at a full run out on the open plain, how her face was contracted into sheer wonderment. She had enjoyed it, had enjoyed being with him, the feeling of freedom and wildness creeping through her veins.

It had never happened again.

"Once," he answered. "Got her on Artemis a while back, that's it."

There was a brief silence as Ponyboy continued peeling the rest of the potatoes, before cutting them all up and dicing them. Dally lit a cigarette, even though he knew Darry preferred them to smoke outside, and eased himself back in the chair some. It was too cold to stand outside and smoke, and besides, he had just walked several miles in the biting wind, his chest still tight from the cool air. Hell, but it would be getting even colder out within the next week or so, the frosty weather beginning to settle in.

As he filled the pot with water, Ponyboy's voice broke his thoughts. "How've . . . you been?"

The older teen cocked an eyebrow. "Fine, kid."

A nod. "Sure." Ponyboy glanced at him after he placed the pot on the stove, a vague look in his green eyes which meant that he was trying to get at something. "Have you . . ." He shook his head, and Dallas could tell immediately where he was going. "You haven't finished the book, have you?"

And there it was, Dallas thought, eyes narrowing. The topic he didn't want to talk about. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that the fucking kid needed an answer about his book, but Dallas was still pissed about what he'd written, and some part of him didn't know how he honestly felt about the entire thing. What in the hell was Ponyboy trying to achieve by sharing a story about some greasers on the shitty side of Tulsa, Oklahoma? It wasn't like any of it would make a difference, would it? Besides, Dallas didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him, or pitying him. He hated that. It made his skin crawl and his body fuel with aggression. Hell, he thought that Ponyboy was smarter than that, could understand their side better, but he was wrong. As he thought about it, he couldn't help but remember the conversation he'd had with Tim Shepard a few days back—how he was so certain that the gangs and shit were dying out—and he grit his teeth.

But before he could actually respond, there was a knock on the door. Dally looked at Ponyboy, whose face reflected perplexity, and while he went to answer the door, the blond scooted to the side in his chair so that he could see who was outside.

"Hi, Mary," Ponyboy said a minute later, and the older teen instantly groaned.

Fucking terrific, he thought, but Soda's girlfriend would be spending the rest of the morning with them, how fantastic was that? He inhaled hardly, the nicotine from his cigarette settling on his tongue and blackening his lungs even more.

He couldn't wait until it was evening.

* * *

A light grin brushed Ella's lips as she placed the oven-hot biscuits on the table, the aroma of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and other delicious foods emitting into her nostrils. The teen was quite pleased with her work, and she was certain that it would bring a smile to her mother's face as well. The turkey wasn't massive in size, and there were only a select few side dishes that Ella and Frances had decided upon that year, but it was the thought that they were spending the afternoon together that counted. The only thing that was still bothering the girl was the fact that she had to conceal her relationship with Dallas from her mother—the thought alone upset her. But it was silly to even reflect on, because Ella knew where her mother stood, and her word was final.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the front door opened and closed, which was followed by the sound of Frances's footsteps. She entered the kitchen a second later, brows raising as she looked at the table and all of the food that was placed on it. Even though there was an aura of happiness surrounding the woman, she still looked worn and tired, and Ella (although somewhat happy) felt a shift in the air as she took in her mother's appearance. She didn't want to think about her illness, or the fact that there was supposedly nothing that the doctors could do—no, that would only put a damper on her good mood and ruin the afternoon for the both of them.

"How did it go?" she decided to ask, placing the dish rag on the counter.

Frances made her way over to wash her hands. "It was nice," she answered, voice low. "It brings me joy to help those poor folks, but sometimes, Ella, it breaks my heart just seeing them."

The girl nodded. "I know."

"But it was nice otherwise," Frances continued on. "Everybody is very friendly, and that attitude really brightens the atmosphere. You should volunteer some time when you're not working . . ." The sentence was left hanging, but Ella had gotten the gist of it. What Frances wanted to add was she should spend more of her free time doing different things, other than hanging around Dallas. The woman shook her head, though, a clear sign that she was done with that subject. "Food looks wonderful."

Ella grinned. "Thanks."

The two of them sat down at the table moments later, and Ella softly said _Grace_. It was mostly quiet, save for the minimal conversation that passed between them. There was an odd sensation creeping up Ella's spine, though, one she didn't understand or like. Whatever it was had been brushed off, for Frances brought up the Curtis family, bringing Ella's attention out of her thoughts.

"So, you're spending the evening with Ponyboy's family, then?"

She nodded in affirmation. "That's the plan." A shrug. "But I won't be long. I'm sure they want to have some time together, too."

"And I'm assuming that . . . _he_ will be there as well." It wasn't a question, it wasn't an accusation, but Ella still stiffened ever so slightly.

She wondered, if but for a second, if she should lie and tell her mother that Dallas wouldn't be there, that he was staying somewhere else, or something. But she didn't want to concoct some ridiculous tale about him, so she decided it would be better for her if she was just honest, whether or not her mother approved—but that wasn't the case here.

"Yes," came the reluctant response as she pushed the potatoes around on her plate.

Frances was quiet for a moment, and Ella thought that she wasn't going to say anything, however, the next words out of her mouth were both surprising and shocking.

"I hope you have fun."

* * *

It was well into the evening when Dallas heard the sound of the truck pulling up in front of the Curtis residence. He was relieved, to say the least, a slight scowl on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest, his back pressing into the couch. He almost wished for the company of Steve, or hell, even Two-Bit at this particular moment, but Steve's family from Kansas was visiting for the holidays, and the Mathews family usually spent Thanksgiving and the like together. Mrs. Mathews was very strict about that, and Dally figured that it was probably the only thing the woman really did bother to care about.

Well, at least she was family oriented that way. The blond really never had an issue with Mrs. Mathews, but when they had first met, he was certain that she didn't think much of him. She wasn't warm and gentle like Mrs. Curtis, but she was pleasant and easygoing, traits that were passed on to her son and daughter. But, glory, Dallas would have preferred to be spending time there rather than listening to Sodapop and Mary getting all cozy throughout the afternoon. Ponyboy hadn't been much company, either, his head stuck in some book when he wasn't helping Darry with the rest of the meal. So Dallas hung-out in the living room, eyes glued to the tube until Darry said that the food was ready. While he ate, Dallas found himself lost in thought, a brooding expression lingering on his face. He thought about Ponyboy and that fucking book, he thought about Ella and how she was desperate for him to read it, and he thought about what the future held for him.

It wasn't all exactly pleasant.

But those thoughts were quickly shoved aside when Ella arrived, the hood instantly perking up; he was about ready to get the hell out of there. Along with Ella came the delicious smell of cookies and . . . Dallas's nose scrunched . . . apple pie. His girlfriend stood in the doorway balancing two trays of assorted homemade cookies, and a circular container of the pie itself. Mary made her way over to help her, taking the pie from her hands and leading her into the kitchen. As she passed him, she smiled, and for a brief moment (so brief that Dallas barely registered it), he felt a bit calmer.

"Well, what do we have here?" Soda questioned, lips curving up as he took in the desserts.

Ella grinned. "I made all kinds of cookies . . . and there's an—"

"Apple pie," Soda finished, already removing the lid of the container. "Golly, I could smell that coming in through the door with ya!"

The girl nearly flushed. "I figured y'all would like some goodies, so . . ."

Darry nodded from the sink as he finished washing the rest of the dishes. "Thanks, Ella. That's very thoughtful of you."

"Of course." A smile. "No trouble at all."

* * *

Ella spent the next two hours talking with Mary and Soda, and even Darry. Ponyboy was across the living room from Dallas, that blasted book still secured in his hands and blocking his face from view—even when Ella had tried speaking with him, he had kind of blew her off, but not harshly. Dally inwardly sneered; he could never really understand the enjoyment people found in books, not even one that Ponyboy had wrote about that starred him as one of the main characters, good Lord. But then there was Ella, who seemed to be enjoying herself while she maneuvered around the Curtis house with a countenance of ease. She had come over and spent a few minutes with Dallas, even joined him for a smoke on the back porch . . . but that was it. Honestly, the blond-headed hood was growing a little impatient, but he reminded himself that Ella would only get annoyed if he pushed her. But he decided, if but for the first time, that Ella truly looked calm. It was a look that he had only seen her express when she was with him, and for a split second, it made him feel uneasy.

The sound of shuffling drew Dallas's attention to Ponyboy, who was standing up. He placed his book on the table beside the chair, nodding once to him. "You want somethin' from the kitchen?" he'd asked, lips pressing together.

"Nah, I'm good," Dally answered, fingers tapping his pack on cigarettes. Oh, blast it, he thought, he was ready to get the hell out of there. "Actually, I'm thinkin' me an' Ella are about to head out." He turned his head so that he was facing the kitchen, Ella's blue eyes instantly finding his own. "You ready over there?"

Ella blinked once, registering the underlying sound of impatience resting in her boyfriend's tone. She wondered why he was so anxious to leave, but then she remembered that he'd been there since earlier that morning, and she nodded a second later. There was something resting on the girl's mind, though, a thought that maybe Dallas was only trying to get her to leave because he wanted to be alone with her, not that Ella was in any way put off by the idea, but . . . still. Then again, the look in Dally's eyes was hinting at something else entirely—she was pretty good at deciphering his moods as of late, even though there were times when he acted impulsively and recklessly.

"Sure," she answered, sounding withdrawn. She said her goodbyes to everyone as Dallas went outside to start the truck up, a cigarette already dangling from his bottom lip as he went. His way of leaving was by simply telling everyone he'd see them later.

Before Ella could step out, though, Ponyboy pulled her aside. "You have a minute?" he inquired, green eyes seeming to pierce into her own.

"What's up?" came the response, and Ella looked him over carefully.

Ponyboy's voice lowered as he spoke next. "How's Dal been?"

The girl's nose wrinkled a little as she looked at the younger teen, remembering that she wanted to speak with him earlier. Well, that was a heck of a question, she decided, unsure of how to answer. Dallas was the same as ever, she reckoned . . . still moody, prone to picking arguments, impulsive, cocky, cold . . . But there were other things, other traits about him, that Ella enjoyed, like the fact that he could be thoughtful and somewhat understanding. He was just rough around the edges, and there were parts of him that Ella really didn't know, didn't understand, and there were things about his past that she knew she would never find out. Of course, there was also the fact that certain topics, ones like Johnny Cade and the events that had taken place fourteen months ago, that were off limits, as Ella saw it.

But, either way, Dallas was still himself.

"He's okay," she replied casually. "Seems fine."

Ponyboy nodded, lips pursed. "He hasn't read any more of the book, has he?" There was a solemn tone to his voice, one that Ella had barely picked up on. "Look, I don't mean to bug him or you, but I really need to let Mr. Franklin know about the forms by the end of next month, or else my contract—"

"I know," the girl intervened, exhaling hardly. She wasn't the least bit upset with Ponyboy, but she was a little off about Dallas and how to get him to finish the book. She never brought it up to him, not really, at least. Hell, there were times when she would subtlety hint at it, mentioning it here and there, but each time that she did, Dallas would immediately push her away and close her out entirely. She'd seen him mad before, angry even, but she had never done anything to really set him off—and that was something she was nervous about . . . how much it would take before he did explode. Her eyes drifted up to meet Ponyboy's, a sincere look in them. "I'll try and talk to him, Pony, I will, but . . . I really don't know how much it'll help." A shrug. "I really want to help you with your publication, though."

The younger teen shifted on his feet. "I know, Ella, and I appreciate it."

She touched his arm for a second, the side of her lips curving ever so little. "Happy Thanksgiving, Ponyboy." And then she was out the door and climbing into the truck seconds later, the sound of the tires pulling away and the headlights disappearing as the truck faded around the corner and into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Ella was rubbing her hands together, the cold still nipping at her skin. Glory, but it was awfully chilly out, and the teen wasn't sure which she preferred better . . . the hellish heat of the Summer, or the Arctic cold that late Autumn was so kindly bringing them. The heater was running, but it was doing very little to warm either Ella or Dallas up. Dallas didn't look the least bit uncomfortable, though, his eyes staring straight out on the road, a hard look in them. Ella curiously glanced over at him, taking in the way his slacked posture was leaning toward the door, left hand loosely holding the steering wheel as his arm rested on the sill. The girl ran her tongue over her lips, keeping her head straight as she slowly slid her hand over, brushing against his a second or so later. There was a brief pause before she felt his eyes on the side of her face, his fingers brushing over her own.

But the sensation was gone as quickly as it had occurred, and Ella felt her shoulders slump forward as Dallas switched hands on the steering wheel. The only thoughts that consumed her mind as they drove along was where they were headed, and a tingling sensation fluttered around her lower gut when she realized that they had driven passed her neighborhood. She remained silent, though, not bothering to say anything for the rest of the ride.

After a while, Merril Ranch came into view, the house itself and the stables all decorated in vivid colors, strands of Christmas lights hung around and giving the lot an almost tranquil like quality. Ella's eyes widened at the sight, mouth parting as she took it in.

"Wow," she murmured to herself, gaze fixated on the small ornaments that were hanging on the porch, the holiday figurines placed around the property, and gosh . . . those lights. "Did Buck do all this?" she questioned, turning to face Dallas.

He was busy lighting up another cigarette. "Family does it every year 'cause they like to get an early start on the holiday shit." He took a drag, the smoke oozing out of his mouth, as he stepped out of the truck. "Come on."

That was all the encouragement Ella needed. She followed right on behind him, face filled with innate wonderment at how beautiful the ranch looked at night with all of the decorations and lights hanging around—it was surreal. And what truly surprised Ella more than anything was the fact that Dallas had brought her there with him, and she knew—even though he would never admit it out loud—that he had brought her because he knew she would like it, his way of being thoughtful.

"Is anyone here?" she asked, looking around curiously.

Dallas shook his head. "Nah." A coy grin touched his lips. "Just you an' me, sweets."

A blush coated the girl's lips as she followed her boyfriend around to the side of the barn. Her brows drew together as she watched him begin climbing the ladder, the only source of light being the strands way above their heads. She called out Dallas's name, a worried sound in her voice as she watched him climb higher and higher, his leg swinging around the top of the barn. From where she stood, Ella could just barely make out his silhouette, and she felt her lower gut beginning to flutter around.

"Dally," she called out again, a stern expression plastering her face as she placed her hands on her hips. "Dally, what are you doing?"

She couldn't see it, but he was grinning devilishly. "Come on up, sweets." He knew she would protest, so it wasn't a surprise when she began whining, causing the hood to roll his eyes down at her. Golly, she was such a fucking dweeb sometimes. "Just climb the damn ladder. You'll be fine." He watched her stay put, and he imagined a cross look on her face by that moment. "Guess you'll just have to stand down there by yourself, then."

It took all but a minute before Ella gave in, annoyance flooding her body as she pulled herself up the metal ladder, her breathing practically hitched in her throat. Sometimes, she really hated Dallas Winston, really despised his entire being, but at the same time that she told herself that, she knew that it was the farthest thing from the truth. Dallas lived life on the edge, and for the past few months, he had been pulling Ella out of her comfort zone, inviting her to do things that she never imagined she would be doing, and by golly did it give her a thrill. Oh, she loved to hate him, and hated to love him—that was the ridiculous cycle of their relationship.

"This better be good," she hissed, teeth chattering as she pulled herself over the ledge.

Dallas cocked an eyebrow. "Quit complainin'."

Ella huffed as she plopped down beside him, her back pressing into one of the stacks. Her chin raised as she looked up, the sky dark overhead, the stars seeming to glisten. For a moment, she felt as if she was so close to the sky that she could touch it, a vague reminder of being a child. She breathed in, both her and Dally quiet for a few minutes. It was only when she pulled her coat tighter around her frame and shivered that Dallas broke the silence.

"You cold?" he asked, voice gruff and slightly aloof. His arm draped around her shoulders though, nudging her closer to him. She could feel him digging around for his pack of smokes, a string of curses falling passed his lips when he realized he was out . . . again.

"I have a few left," she offered, though she knew that he hated Lights.

He made a face. "Give'em here."

Ella obliged, before slipping back under his arm, the top of her head resting against his shoulder. Her knees were bent as she lay halfway on her side, calves resting on Dallas's thighs. He passed her the cigarette, and she took a drag, eyes closing as she took the moment in. It was very rare when Dallas let her get this close, unless he was trying to get some from her, so she tried to soak up every second of the times when he was allowing her to be physically affectionate. One thing she had learned was that Dallas Winston was not a very gentle lover—quite the opposite, in fact. Even his kisses were rough, but Ella sometimes felt more than just that, the things that Dallas couldn't say aloud, the emotions that were long buried beneath the surface . . . and there were times when he expressed some forms of passion, and those moments were what Ella cherished wholeheartedly.

"It's real nice here," she said after a while. When Dallas didn't respond, she tilted her head to look up at him, noticing the way his hardened face had smoothed out just a little. His eyes were still icy, though, calculating even, and Ella felt herself deflate a bit. "Thanks for bringing me." She stared at him for a second or so, looking at his wispy blond hair that curled along his neck and around his ears, the way it fell over his forehead and eyebrows. His lips were pressed together, angular and pointed face rough and piercing, just like the rest of him. A sigh escaped her mouth, and Ella felt her eyes lower as she spoke next. "Dally . . ."

"What'd Ponyboy want?" he asked, cutting her off. "Saw you two talkin' in the doorway."

Ella froze, not wanting to bring up the book and have that particular conversation ruin their night, so she thought of the quickest lie that she could. "We were talking about Berkeley."

Dallas didn't even have to look at her to know that she was lying. What she didn't know was that when she lied, her voice raised two octaves and she would glance to the right for half a second. Ella thought that he didn't pay attention to her, but he did . . . it was the little things she did that he noticed, like the way she folded her bottom lip when she was in thought, or the way she crossed her arms together when she was nervous or embarrassed, or how there were times when she could never bring herself to really look at him straight, because he still made her nervous.

"Yeah," he said, not bothering to question it. He knew Ponyboy probably asked her about that blasted book—it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. "You goin' or what?"

Ella looked a little hurt at his biting tone, not that he cared. "I don't know yet. I've thought about it a lot, but I haven't made a decision. I still have time to inform them if I'll be attending, even though I'm really pushing my limit."

Dallas merely looked at her from the corner of his eye, the smell of her perfume wafting up into his nostrils. He wondered if he would actually miss her if she did decide to go . . . but then again, what did it really matter?

Or that's what he asked himself.

There were things that Ella wanted from him, things that he could never give to her, things that he could never share with her . . .

It was better that she went to New York, to that college, before it was too late for her to get the hell out of that shitty town, or before he could really corrupt her for good . . . because he was certain that if she really knew him, it would tear her apart . . . and he really didn't want that.

Better to set her free before she became too attached.

 _And oh, my my, it would break your heart  
_

 _If you knew how I loved you, if I showed you my scars  
_

 _If I played you my favorite song lying here in the dark  
_

 _Oh my my, it would break your heart_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	32. All Those Things

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Raspberries own "Go All the Way."**

* * *

 _I come alive when she does_

 _All those things to me_

 **November 29, 1966**

A scowl formed on Darry's face as he stared down at the dishes loaded into the rack, all dirty and not making the kitchen smell all that bright. His lips pressed into a thin line as he wondered why neither one of his knucklehead brothers had bothered to clean up the night before, especially when he was the one who had made dinner and cleaned up the table. The only chore left to be done was to wash and dry the dishes, and apparently, neither Sodapop or Ponyboy had noticed . . . or they both had just been too damn lazy to bother—a trait that the two of them had started possessing, especially Soda. Okay, so maybe Darry was relieved to see his younger brother practically back to his old self, the fact that he and Mary were going on some little getaway trip for her birthday consuming his already clouded thoughts, but that certainly didn't excuse him slacking off on helping around the house. Ponyboy . . . now Darry didn't know what his problem was, but he was very much aware of some major exam he had at the end of the week; he'd had his head stuck in his school books Monday night, going on that he needed to pass or else his overall average would decrease.

Oh, for Pete's sake, the oldest Curtis brother thought, a contemptuous expression blanketing his face as he began cleaning the dishes. The brewing coffee was at least helping with the aroma—nobody had even bothered to rinse off the plates, for crying out loud! Shaking his head, Darry squeezed some soap onto the sponge, eyes nearly blowing out of their sockets when he saw just how torn and old the thing was—his irritation only piked after that. For the love of—

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis!" he yelled out, not caring how early it was. "Soda Patrick Curtis!" There was a slight growl in his voice, and he knew that both of his kid brothers would know that he was angry, that he meant business. Slacking off a little here and there was one thing, but between the dirty old sponge, the pungent odor of dirty dishes, and . . . those crumbs left on the counter, Darry had had enough. "Ponyboy! Soda!" he called again.

The sound of shuffling feet told him that both teenagers were well on their way, and when they entered the kitchen only seconds later, taking in his less than jubilant countenance, both of their eyes rounded ever so little, and they shared a look. Now, Darry had been lenient as of late, and he and his youngest brother had been on decent terms for quite some time, so he was sure to be careful and not ruin any of that, but he certainly couldn't let this misshape slide, either.

He eyed them, muscular arms crossed over his chest. "Why didn't either of you bother to clean the dishes last night?"

Ponyboy shrugged as Soda rubbed the back of his head, his hair sticking out in every which way as he opened his mouth to speak. "Gee, Dar, I went out with Mary last night . . . I didn't think—"

"I was studying for a test," came the mumbled response from Ponyboy.

Well, Darry was right on one thing, he noted—his youngest brother had been busy with schoolwork—but Sodapop on the other hand . . . wasn't excused. Just because he had a date with Mary DeVaney didn't mean that he could just up and leave without helping out first. But the lousy dishes weren't the only thing he was irked about. There were still the sponge and those crumbs laying around that almost made the eldest brother's skin crawl. Well, he figured his father was right all those years back . . . he really did have the replicated mindset of his mother.

"And neither of you noticed the sponge? Or those crumbs?" His voice boomed as the next two inquires fell from his mouth, the vein on his forehead ready to bulge. Glory. "Alright, here's the deal," he said after a moment, pointing a finger at Soda. "No more dates unless you help out with some of the chores around this place"—He turned toward his youngest brother—"and Ponyboy, I know you've got some studying to do, but it wouldn't hurt you to help out, either." He breathed, eyes closing next. "I know you both have lives and whatnot, but really, would it kill either of you to . . . clean up some?"

Soda yawned, sleep still veiling his brown eyes. "Sure, Darry. No problem."

Even Ponyboy had jerked his head up at the golden-haired teen's response with shock evident on his face. Holy hell, but the heavens must have opened up or something, because never had Soda been so calm about doing chores, or answering so easily to them in a positive manner. Darry had to do a double take at him, and for a moment, he wondered if maybe he ought to spend more time away with Mary. Oh, the irony.

"Good," was all he could manage to say after that, bafflement still reflected in his eyes.

* * *

The bar wasn't classified as one of Dallas Winston's main haunts during a mid-morning Tuesday. But on this particular morning, he was searching for Dylan Jones, Daxon's kid brother. He remembered talking to Tim a few days back, that conversation about the gangs around town fading and whatnot, and he had chosen not to fully believe it. What did it matter, though? Hell, he didn't have any plans of sticking around that blasted town for much longer . . . well, he still had until the end of his probation, but that was it. Anyway, he wanted to talk with the little prick about that cop that got shot, find out what was what. Usually, he would have had answers by now, not one to let things of that severity pass by without having more of the dirt, but he had been a little . . . preoccupied, to put it nicely. Yeah, that was it. Preoccupied by a pain in the ass broad that was starting to become a thorn in his side . . . again.

Dallas didn't really mind Ella, but he was getting a little annoyed with her lately. It wasn't really her, but . . . it was the things she was doing that hacked him off. Alright, so he had found her snooping around for Ponyboy's book a few nights back in his room at Buck's, only to then ask him if he had bothered to read any more of it, which had pissed him off, _and then_ she offered to fucking read it to him, like he was fucking illiterate or unable to comprehend the damn thing. Fuckin' Ella. Also, she had mentioned that she might not go to Berkeley next month, that maybe it wasn't the right time, blah-fucking-blah.

Glory, but the blond wanted to knock her block off sometimes. He didn't know what he really wanted from her anymore, didn't know what to think about the two of them, or . . . anything really. Hell, he'd never really given _them_ much thought before, and he was certain that Ella's reasoning to hint at sticking around wasn't just because of her old lady. No, he knew that he played a part in the girl's choices, and to be honest, he didn't want to. He didn't want to be the one holding her back.

But there was also the fact that he wasn't . . . quite ready to end things. Besides, Ella said that she wanted to spend the next several weeks not worrying about any of that shit until it was actually time to, and Dallas figured that there was still _some_ amount of time—regardless of how little—left before either of them had to toss their cards out on the table and . . . whatever. He didn't want to be thinking about this shit right now, didn't want to consider how Ella's face would look when—

"Winston!" The blond was jerked straight out of his thoughts, eyes squinting as his focus landed on Dylan Jones, the little prick nodding at him like they were old time buddies. Fuck that. Well, Ella was dropped from his mind, thank fuck. "Heard you was lookin' for me," Dylan said, pudgy face raising as he tilted his head to view the older hood on a better angle.

Word traveled fast, Dallas thought bitterly. "You heard right, Jones." He hated the casualty that this asshole was displaying, and Shepard's words only echoed louder in his head. "Is it true your big brother really got twenty-five years?"

Dylan looked proud. "Yeah, it's true. Ain't that somethin'?" A cocky grin formed across his lips as he took a swig of his Pepsi, cue in his right hand. "Impressive, huh?" The sound in his voice made the older teen's nostrils flare ever so slightly. "You know who's leadin' the Kings now?"

It didn't take but for that question to form the answer. Hell, no wonder Dylan was boasting . . . he must have been mighty proud to be his older brother's successor. Well, there wasn't any way in hell that Dylan could ever live up to Daxon's reputation, that was for certain. Dallas knew that, he knew that Dylan was just using his triumph as a means to conceal what he was really feeling—scared. Yeah, Dallas was no fool, he could practically smell the fear emitting off of the younger teen. Dylan might have done some wicked shit in the past, but he wasn't Daxon, no fucking way. Dallas almost smirked at the thought of the River Kings dying out completely within the next year or so, if Tim's calculations were correct, with all this talk about how gangs were becoming a thing of the past. The blond didn't want to consider that, though.

"Leading them where?" Dallas quipped. "Straight down the tube?" A bitter chuckle sounded as he took a step closer to the other boy. "So's what made your brother pull a heater on that cop?"

Dylan appeared surprised, blatant shock on his face. "You mean you ain't heard?" The look that Dallas gave him was enough to make him spill what had happened. "Fuzz was getting brazen . . . the cop he shot forced himself on some chick . . . some friend of Joe Gallagher's." He lit a cigarette. "Yeah, that was some wild shit, I'll tell ya. Joe's been a buddy of Daxon's since grade school . . . so when he found out about that chick, he went ballistic." A shrug. "Ain't sure if she was really Joe's girl or just one of his easy side thrills, but . . . yeah, he was pissed." He licked his lips, expression thoughtful. "I almost wish he killed that bastard."

Dallas was staring at Dylan hardly. "Who was the chick?"

Dylan's brow raised. "Cherie Peters."

Now that was news to him, and Dallas, if not for many years of practicing a strict poker face, would have nearly dropped his jaw. Damn, he knew that Cherie was loose, got around a lot, but he couldn't fucking believe for the life of himself that she was the main reason of Daxon Jones going crazy enough to shoot a cop and somehow end up with a twenty-five year sentence. (That was it?) Well, glory, the blond thought, that was . . . a wild enough story, one he hadn't been expecting to hear. So Cherie was friends with Joe Gallagher . . . not that Dallas gave a shit. He knew Joe, spoke to him a few times in the past, not that they were friends or anything like that, but still . . . holy shit . . .

But Dylan was already continuing on, oblivious to the fact that Dallas's thoughts had drifted elsewhere, his usual hard countenance giving way to something else entirely. Perhaps, without Daxon Jones around to lead the River Kings, Tim was right. In fact, Dallas was sure that the dark-haired hood was, because Dylan Jones just wasn't cut from the same piece of cloth that his brother was—he wasn't born to lead a gang, a vicious one that Daxon led, no less; he just didn't have the brains.

"Yeah, it was somethin'." He was rambling at that point. "I ain't sure 'bout this Cherie Peters broad, but that's the scoop, Winston." His yellowed teeth glinted as his lips curled back into a sinister grin. "So's since Daxon put me in charge, I control his old turf . . . all down past the tracks, and guess what?" His tongue rolled over his bottom teeth. "I don't want you comin' 'round no more, savvy?"

Dallas was about to tell the younger teen what he could do with himself, but a familiar voice and the sound of girls entering the bar distracted him. He jerked around on his heel, coming face to face with none other than Angela Shepard and . . . well, speak of the fucking devil. Cherie Peters stood beside the youngest Shepard sibling, an almost surprised expression taking over her face as her eyes met his own, lips curving downward. Well, wasn't this just something, Dallas thought, a mixture of vexation and apathy worming its way through his veins as he eyed the two.

"The hell you doin' here?" he asked, the inquiry directed at Angela.

The black-haired girl merely cocked an eyebrow. "Ain't like it's any of your business, Winston, so why don't you go back to whatever it was you were doin'?"

Dallas was already irked enough by having to listen to Dylan Jones, and he was in no mood to listen to the oozing sass dripping off of Angela's tongue. Glory, she was such a fucking spitfire, one that he didn't exactly care for. Didn't matter, though, did it? No, it didn't. Besides, the person he was interested in at that particular moment was Cherie, not that he owed her anything. Hell, just looking at her made his stomach turn, and remembering a few months back when Ella went on that this broad was harassing her about him only fueled his dislike. But still, he was slightly intrigued by this entire ordeal, meaning Daxon Jones and that cop, and learning that Cherie had been the primary reason for those events playing out really . . . fascinated the blond— _almost_.

He brushed Angela off, nodding toward Cherie instead. "We was just talkin' about you."

For a split second, Cherie looked like she was going to start putting the moves on him, a small flash in her eyes suggesting that she was almost basking in the fact that anyone was even paying her mind, but the oncoming look was gone as quickly as it had started forming. Instead, she nibbled the corner of her bottom lip, arms crossing beneath her chest as her left hip jutted out.

"That so, sugar?" she questioned, voice low and monotone. "Not surprisin' or nothin', especially 'cause of Joey." She batted her lashes, then. "You know him, right, Dylan?"

Dylan snorted, twirling the cue around. "And that's just what we were talkin' about."

Angela spoke up, her voice clipped as she eyed Dylan with disinterest. "I wouldn't go around flaunting myself if I was you, Dylan." Her eyes were like that of a tiger's. "Everyone knows you ain't ever gonna lead a gang like your brother did."

Apparently, the remark had floored Dylan, or maybe, it was the idea alone of living up everyone's expectations that was really eating at him. Also, he wasn't against attacking women, either, not that Dallas ever thought differently, considering the fact that Daxon had Chris Marmo jump Angela a few months back. But just after the words passed through Angela's mouth, Dylan whipped the cue straight across her cheek, her head snapping the other way as a large welt began forming, the color bright in contrast to her dark skin. Cherie's eyes broadened as she rushed to grab the stricken girl, and Dallas felt his fists tighten as his jaw clenched. Well, he hadn't been looking for a fight that day, but Dylan had just made an excuse for him, one that he wasn't going to toss away.

Before Dylan could even register what was happening, his three buddies gloating in the background like the scumbags they were, his nose crunched as it was met with the impact of Dallas's fist, the blond not holding back as he grabbed the cue out of his hand and brought it down over his head. One thing about Dallas Winston was that he was a ruthless fighter—he had learned that way at a young age; he had to, less he be chewed up and spit out altogether on the streets of New York's wild side—so nearly pulverizing Dylan Jones was nothing out of the ordinary for him, and besides, just remembering how the little shit had knifed him back in the Summer only added more fuel to the fire. But one thing that Dallas didn't tolerate was men beating on women, even if they deserved it. Hell, he'd pushed broads off of him, acted obnoxiously toward them, used them . . . whatever, but he'd never raised a hand to one before, and recalling Mr. Curtis's words, he wouldn't ever.

"Dallas!" Angela screeched, and then the bartender was pulling him and Dylan apart, threatening the two of them about calling the fuzz. Usually, like Buck, nobody would call the cops in a situation like this, especially when it concerned underage kids getting rough in a bar, but neither Dallas or Dylan had been drinking, only talking. Still, this guy wasn't one to take fighting all that lightly, so after he had threatened the two of them, he ordered them both out.

Dylan spit, blood mixed with his saliva. "You just remember what I told ya, Winston!" he called out, pointing a finger at him. "You stay the hell away from the tracks!"

"Fuck you," Dallas shouted back at him, ignoring the stinging sensation in his left cheek where Dylan got one good swing in. He shook his head, mumbling swears under his breath. His attention turned back to Cherie and Angela as they stood a few feet from him, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you doin' over here, kid?"

Angela was still trying to nurse her swelling cheek. "Taking care of business . . . _my own_ business, which don't concern you."

The blond's teeth grounded. "Yeah? Well do yourself a favor and get the hell outta here. This ain't the place for you."

The girl looked like she was about to say something, but ultimately decided not to. Her nose scrunched up, though, an expression of irritation lingering in her eyes as she turned on her heel and began walking in the opposite direction. Cherie remained for a moment, her gaze on Dallas's face as she tried to decipher the look on his own face. She had never understood him, never knew what made him so angry, or why he was always so cold. She hadn't needed him to boost her own reputation, no, for she was already known, but there was some part of her that almost enjoyed his company—when he was bothering to pay attention to her, that is. Still . . .

"Guess you heard, huh?" she said, lighting up a cigarette. "Ain't nothin' 'round these parts that's really a secret."

Dallas's lips quirked, although it looked anything but friendly. "About the only thing you have right." His voice was condescending. "Do yourself a favor and stay the hell away from Angela Shepard, you hear me, broad?" When Cherie began to protest, he merely continued on. "Tim gets wind that you're hanging around his kid sister, he won't hesitate to beat the tar outta you, chick or not." And that was the truth, for Tim didn't like Cherie or her kind.

Cherie's lips pressed together, but she nodded slowly. "Yeah, sugar, whatever you say . . ."

When she walked away that time, Dallas felt nothing. He had been pleased to get rid of her all those months ago—when she finally got the hint that he was through with her—but this time, he only felt apathetic. He watched her go, though, wondering how in hell that a girl like her could cause such a domino effect . . . or rather, how her complaint (truth or not) could lead to the oncoming downfall of a gang . . . and for a moment, the blond-headed hoodlum could almost feel the honesty in Shepard's words. Yeah, things were changing alright, changing real fast, and truthfully, Dallas wasn't sure how he felt about it—any of it.

That was the last time he ever saw Cherie Peters.

* * *

Steve wiped his hands off on his rag, the smell of grease and oil lingering on his clothes as he entered the store. His lips were curved down, brows laced together, as he tried to rub the grime away, a scowl beginning to indent his face second after second when he realized it wasn't coming off. Ella frowned, wondering if Steve Randle ever smiled; he always seemed aggravated, his voice low and bitter, as if he'd never had a happy day in his life. Even his laugh held a sound of mockery, as if his humor was more or less dry, and Ella realized that she'd never witnessed the older teen looking anything but sour, or just plain . . . dull. She considered him and Evie for a moment, and she thought about how Evie was energetic and lively, and she realized that they were nearly two separate personalities, just like her and Dallas—even though there was a prodigious difference there.

Steve looked up at the sound of movement in the aisle, expression fixed. "What are you doin' here, Ella?" he asked, looking her over with a skeptical eye.

Ella had come to realize that Steve was like that with everyone, though. He had a very stern personality that could reflect that of Tim Shepard's, only Steve wasn't as hardened or cruel. He was very mistrustful and guarded, as the brown-haired girl had come to learn from just talking to him, as well as from Evie, who once described Steve as a wary cat. But she wasn't really there to observe or analyze the dark-haired greaser, or compare him to anyone or anything.

She answered honestly. "Waiting for Dallas."

Steve nodded. "That so?" Reaching for a bottle of Pepsi in the refrigerator, he offered her one. After taking a good swig of his own, he continued on. "I hear you were accepted at Berkeley College in New York . . ."

The girl's brows raised in surprise. "Yeah, a while ago." A shrug. "I have to call them with a decision in the next two weeks, well . . . mostly to be courteous, I guess." She licked her lips, the carbonation causing her tongue to tingle. "I just don't know if I'm going yet."

Steve looked taken aback, as if Ella's words had utterly shocked him. "Well, why wouldn't ya?" he questioned, sounding as startled as he appeared. "I mean, hell, that's one helluva opportunity, know what I'm sayin'?"

She nodded. "I'd like to go, but there's . . . complications." At Steve's bewildered expression, Ella had to sigh. "It's nothing personal," she said. "I've been worried about my mother with her being ill and all, and well . . . there's Dallas and I as well."

If Steve felt any bit of sympathy for the girl, he sure didn't show it. "While I get that an' all, that still shouldn't hold you back from pursuing a good future."

For a moment, Ella considered Steve's words, unsure of why she was confiding in him in the first place, or rather, why it was so easy to talk to the usually firm teen. But he did have a point, she noted, a good point—one she couldn't exactly ignore. Remembering Bridget Stevens's words, though, Ella figured that there was always another year in which she could attend Berkeley. (Or maybe this was just her way of procrastinating because she was really afraid to accept what was on the road in front of her.)

Still, she responded with a hint of defense. "I'm not holding back from anything," she said. "I'm just not really sure how I feel at the moment . . . especially with my mother." The doctor's words echoed in her mind at that moment, a sinister reminder that there wasn't anything left to do, that . . . there wasn't a lot of time left. The thought alone caused the girl to grimace, a motion which hadn't gone unnoticed by Steve. Ella's chin bowed a little as she glanced down at the floor tiles. "Dallas thinks I ought to go, too, but Evie and Bridget reminded me that I could wait another year, too."

Steve nearly dropped his jaw at the fact that Dallas Winston, of all people, had actually encouraged somebody to do something (something good, no less) for themselves. Honestly, the dark-haired teen was quite stunned, but he thought about Ella Mitchell for a good moment, and then he understood, understood exactly what was going on. Hell, it was odd, considering the fact that Ella was once the blond-headed hoodlum's tutor, and now it was as if the roles were reversed. Steve couldn't wrap his head around that one, but it sure was odd—real odd. He would have thought that a chick like Ella would be ready to hit the high road with an opportunity like Berkeley, but listening to her right then made him wonder if this girl was really the same person he thought her to be.

"Well," he began, turning to toss his finished Pepsi in the trash, "I ain't sure what to tell you, Ella, but you gotta do what you gotta do." A short silence past between them. "If I was you, though, I wouldn't wait around for a guy like Dally, buddy or not."

A glum look crossed the girl's face. "He wants to leave this place some day."

"Don't we all . . ."

The response was left hanging as the sound of a truck rolled to a stop in front of the DX. Ella turned, a small smile brushing her lips as she realized it was Dallas. Well, better late than never, she thought as her eyes drifted up at the clock behind the register. She offered Steve a curt wave as she exited the store, the older teen giving her a nod as he shot the finger at his buddy outside. Dallas was returning the favor, a bitter grin blanketing his mouth as held his hand out the window.

Ella shook her head at the two of them as she climbed up into the passenger seat, her recent good mood somewhat dissipated, silence engulfing them for the next several minutes while they drove along.

Dallas glanced at her a while later, wondering what her problem was. Usually, whenever he saw her at the end of the day, she was chatty and cheerful, going on about this and that—unless she was in a foul mood. But Ella didn't look the slightest bit mad or upset, as Dally had come to sense her emotions quite easily. What she did look, however, was withdrawn, as if she was far away or lost in her thoughts—far from . . . him.

His tongue ran over his bottom lip. "What's up with you, huh?"

That seemed to do the trick, for Ella's eyes widened as if she were struck back to reality. "Nothing," she answered, voice flat. "Why?"

The blond snorted. "Could've fooled me, sweets." His eyes met her own for a brief second. "First time you ain't complained about Ginger what's-her-face."

Ella merely shrugged, and if her mood could sour more, it did just then. She wondered what her life would be like in New York, how things would go for her. She would have to get some kind of job, make a living, but . . . was that what she really wanted? Did she really want to leave Oklahoma to start a new life around people she didn't know? The idea seemed almost out of reach, but Ella knew that it wasn't, and as she recalled her conversation with Steve, she had to consider how much different her life could be in only a few short weeks if she went.

But her attention returned to her boyfriend as she considered leaving her job. "There's not much to tell today, I guess." And when she turned to look at him, really look at him, she noticed the swelling under his left eye, the darkening color around it nearly making her sick. "Dallas, what happened?" she nearly demanded, eyes wide.

Dallas blew her concern off. "Ain't nothin'," he decided to say, lips curving down. "Got into a fight, that's it." Two could play this game, he thought. Besides, he usually didn't involve Ella in the gang shit, as it wasn't really something he ever _wanted_ to include her in—not that side of his life. Then again, there were a lot of things (his past, mostly) that he didn't bother to include Ella in. "You should see the other guy, though."

The girl looked like she was brooding, that uptight expression taking over her features. "Who was it?"

"Dylan Jones," he replied. "You don't know him, so don't worry about it."

Her arms crossed over her chest. She remembered Daxon Jones, and pieced together that Dylan was most likely his brother, though Dallas was right—she didn't know either of them personally. "Whatever you say, Dallas."

Dallas's eyebrow cocked at Ella's statement, and with a quick jerk of his hand, he cut the steering wheel to the right, pulling off on the side of the road. Ella gasped as the momentum jeered her body forward and to the side, her heart pounding a little harder in her chest. Her eyes immediately narrowed as she shot a glare at the hood beside her. But Dallas's annoyance was already brewing, knowing that there was something off with his girlfriend and wondering what in the hell she was concealing.

"What's wrong with you?" Ella blurted out, vexation laced in her tone.

"Me?" Dallas seethed. "You're the one with the problem, toots." At her taken aback expression, he merely drawled on, irritated with her, the reminder of Dylan Jones, and every other fucking thing that had happened that day. "What? You riding the cotton pony or somethin'?"

At the comment, Ella's jaw practically dropped, but her face only twisted up in anger. Cheeks red from all of the frustration she was feeling, she pushed the door opened and stepped down onto the road, only turning to bitterly tell her boyfriend where he could go, and that she was walking . . . home. Yeah, she didn't care where the heck they were, or whatever, or what their earlier plans were . . . she was going to walk back home. To hell with Dallas. She heard him calling after her, but she ignored him, eyes drifting up as she noticed how dark it had gotten—it was about to rain, and soon. Well, maybe if she just—

The sound of a door slamming caused her to walk faster, arms tightening around her middle as she tried to shake off the cold. Glory, but it was raw out, and Ella only attempted to hug her jacket around her body to keep some of the warmth in, not that it was doing all that much.

"Ella," Dallas called, the sound of his boots following behind her.

The girl's jaw clenched. "Go away, Dallas," she bit out, tone harsh. "I'm walking home."

"It's twenty five degrees out, stupid," he pointed out, and she could hear the gruffness in his voice, feel the anger radiating off of him. "Ella," he called again, only that time, his hand wrapped around her arm, and he jerked her around to face him. His eyes were blazing. "The hell is your problem, broad?"

But Ella shook herself out of his hold. "You're my problem right now." Her nostrils flared, a sign that she was growing more exasperated. Really, she wasn't at all mad at Dallas, but she was mad about a lot of other things, things that had been building up for the last several days. A sigh fell from her lips as she looked back at Dallas. "Just . . . go."

No matter how pissed Dallas was, though, he wasn't going to leave Ella to walk twenty miles back to her fucking neighborhood. He'd done some messed up shit before, but he wasn't going to leave a dopey broad like Ella to walk alone in the dark, especially with a fucking storm on the way. He didn't care if he had to drag her ass back to the truck with him, screaming and wailing or what, but he would make sure she got home alright. He felt a surge of resentment creep through his veins as he considered his own thoughts—he wasn't turning into a blasted pansy. Fuckin' Ella.

He grabbed for her again, a little rougher, pulling her along with him despite her protests. Glory, but he had no idea what in the fuck her problem was, and quite frankly, he didn't want to deal with it, or her. Then again, Ella getting all fired up had always been a hilarious enjoyment of his. She could really become a hellion if he worked her up enough—and that's what he liked about her, the fact that she wasn't afraid to go back at him, put him in his place, even though he gave it right back to her. It was just how they functioned with each other, and truthfully, Dallas wasn't opposed to pissing Ella off just to get her all irritated and have her come at him mouthing off and all—much like she was just then.

"Dallas!" she cried, forcing herself to plant her feet. "Let me go!"

Oh, he had obliged her wishes, letting her go as she was pulling away. An amused look took over his hardened face as Ella fell back on her bottom, eyes wide with both shock and anger. She stared up at him, countenance reflecting sheer fury. Sometimes, she seriously hated Dallas Winston, hated and loved him like crazy, and sometimes, he drove her straight up a wall, made her second guess herself, question herself, even. Pulling herself up to her feet, Ella sent daggers at Dallas before her arms jutted out to shove him back hardly. Only he didn't fall. And the impish expression that formed in his orbs was enough to make Ella want to turn on her heel and run in the opposite direction.

"That all you got, sweets?" he challenged, taking a step toward her. And then another. As she continued to glare up at him with all of the anger that she could muster up, Dallas only grabbed her forearms, ignoring the raindrops that were beginning to tap against his skin, and leaned down to grin at her. He could both hear and feel her ragged breaths, smell her faint perfume and . . . _her_. "'Cause now it's my turn." And before she could react, his lips crashed hardly against her own, practically knocking the air out of her.

It took a moment for Ella to respond, but when she did, she found that she was only responding with as much eagerness as Dallas, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to her, her body language telling him that she wanted more, that she _needed_ more. The kiss turned more heated and sloppy as the seconds past, and Ella didn't protest when Dallas began inching them back toward the truck, the rain beginning to fall harder as the sound of thunder roared in the distance, and for the first time that day, everything felt alright.

 _It feels so right (feels so right)  
_

 _Being with you here tonight_

* * *

 **Feedback is always appreciated!**

 **Thank you for reading, and for all of the unceasing support and encouragement for this story! :3**


	33. State of Imaginary Grace

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Modern English owns "I Melt With You."**

* * *

 _Dream of better lives, the kind which never hates  
_

 _(You should see why)  
_

 _Trapped in the state of imaginary grace  
_

 _(You should know better)_

 **December 2** — **3, 1966**

Ella was half awake, the low drone of the music downstairs preventing her from falling into a sound sleep. Besides that, the cold air seeping through the cracked window was doing little to comfort her, the rawness causing goosebumps to litter her skin even under the blankets. But Dallas couldn't sleep with the window closed, and it was always better to keep it cracked during . . . certain activities. The thought alone caused the girl's cheeks to tint ever so little, the soft sound of Dallas's snores from beside her being her only source of solace. Truthfully, she would have rather been at home in her own bed, but she was too tired to leave Buck's earlier that night, and she was too out of it to care. But that was then, and now she was regretting her earlier choices. At least her blankets weren't scratchy or thin, and they . . . smelled a little cleaner, too.

This was Dallas, though, Ella thought, and no matter how much she didn't condone his lifestyle, or how she wished that he would take better care of himself, she wasn't going to press him. Things had been tense between them already, and Ella figured the only thing keeping them together was their physical intimacy. It was December, the month that Ella had been silently dreading. She knew that she had a choice to make—a big decision—and whatever she chose would involve her future. Berkeley had been on the back burner of her thoughts, and she remembered telling Dally a while ago that she didn't want to think about anything until it was time to. And time was drawing nearer to that moment, when things would have to come out of the woodwork.

Licking her lips in the dark, Ella turned her head to the side to study her sleeping boyfriend. She had to wonder if he ever would have stayed with her if she didn't go. She knew how she felt about him, knew what her feelings were, and honestly, she was scared. Unfortunately, her thoughts were cut short when Dallas groaned, his breathing becoming more ragged as his fingers curled into a fist. Another groan passed his lips, and then he was mumbling in his sleep, his hand trying to grasp onto something, nose wrinkling as his eyes squeezed.

"Johnny," he mumbled out, the sound of his voice laced with desperation, guilt, and anger. "Don't die on me now . . ."

And Ella's eyes widened for a second as he jerked up, a stoic expression on his face. But the girl had felt almost mortified, as if she was intruding on a private moment, something that completely unnerved her, and she quickly closed her eyes. She felt him get up and shuffle out of the bed, the light from the lamp on the table nearly blinding her as he turned it on. She listened as he made his way around the room, and it dawned on her that he was searching for clothes.

"Dally," she half-whispered, eyes cracking open. She found him pulling a t-shirt over his head, the glare he sent her enough to stun her.

His gaze was menacing, and it occurred to Ella that he was leaving. "Shut it, Ella." Slipping his feet into his boots, he reached for his coat and pack of cigarettes, turning the light out as he did. "Go back to sleep."

Ella shifted upright, tugging the blanket around her body. "Dallas—"

But she was answered with the door slamming shut, and she blinked in the darkness, a shiver ghosting up her spine as she wondered what had just happened. She figured that she wouldn't be getting any sleep for the rest of the night, her chest tight and thoughts clouded with the incident that had just taken place. Ella wondered if Dally had nightmares about Johnny before, or rather, about the events from a year ago, and then she remembered Ponyboy relaying that Dally might have blamed himself for Johnny's death, and a dreadful feeling circulated around the pit of her stomach.

Dallas didn't come back that night.

* * *

Ponyboy lit a cigarette before passing it to Ella. She had been awfully quiet that afternoon, her facial expressions somewhat withdrawn as she looked at old drawings of her boyfriend that Ponyboy had done years ago—mostly of when Dallas was in a bad mood, something Ponyboy had explained captured his personality real well. Ella had stopped by earlier after Soda and Mary left for their little two day getaway, something the two of them had been planning for the past few weeks for Mary's seventeenth birthday. Apparently, the two were using the excuse that Mary was staying at Ella's for the weekend or something like that—Ponyboy wasn't exactly sure. He had come to like Mary real well, though, and sometimes, the two of them would still meet up at the library to talk and hangout, and the younger teen had come to find that they shared a lot of common interests. He was awfully sorry that he was so lousy to her when Soda first introduced her to him and Darry.

But his thoughts shifted back to Ella, who had softly sighed from beside him. He took a drag of his own cigarette, the nicotine settling on his tongue for a moment. He had been leery about talking to Ella about her relationship with Dally, knowing fully well that things had been rocky between them. Ella's mother wasn't doing too well, which was taking an emotional toll on the girl, and there also was some tension brewing with the River Kings' new leader Dylan Jones and Dallas, and to be honest, Ponyboy wasn't sure what it was. He'd heard from Curly that Jones didn't want Dally coming around their turf anymore, not that Dallas would listen to the likes of Daxon's kid brother. Still, the teen knew that there were problems circulating his friends' relationship, and while he wanted to help out, for Ella's sake, he didn't want to directly involve himself.

He decided to start up a conversation. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Ella quietly chuckled. "I'm sure they wouldn't be worth that much," she teased, the side of her lips curving up for half a second. "I'm just concerned about—"

"Your mother," Ponyboy said, flicking his ashes.

She was silent for a moment, before shrugging. "I'm worried about her . . . and Dallas."

At that, the younger teen perked up, afraid that the blond had possibly done something. The look on Ella's face was one of distress, and when she leaned forward, bringing her knees to her chin, Ponyboy felt that there was definitely something wrong. Ella had always been straightforward and blunt, as far as he knew, so when she didn't answer right away, his thoughts immediately soured.

"Is he okay?" he tried asking first, just to be safe.

Ella exhaled, the smoke billowing from her mouth and dissipating around them. "Ponyboy, I think he had a nightmare." She turned to the side, their eyes meeting. "I couldn't sleep last night, and well, Dally was mumbling things in his sleep . . . things about . . . Johnny Cade . . ." She continued on, voice stiffening here and there, as if she were deeply disturbed by the incident. ". . . and I haven't seen him since he left."

Ponyboy wondered if Dallas had bothered reading any more of his book, if perhaps that was the trigger, but another thought occurred in his mind, and he had to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Dally had been suffering nightmares for quite some time. He felt a little green thinking about Ella and Dallas together, even sleeping together, but if there was anyone who might know about the hood's behavior recently, it would be Ella. He remembered speaking to Darry about Dallas, and he wondered if it was true . . . if Dallas really did blame himself for the events that had taken place over a year ago.

"Has he been—"

But Ella already knew what he was going to ask. "He's been fine, for the most part," she relayed, lips pursing. An odd look crossed her face, brows drawing together. "I really think that you ought to speak to him, Ponyboy . . . about your book." At the fifteen year old's blatant expression of bafflement, Ella quickly continued. "I know you told me that he might feel guilty about what happened with Johnny last year"—She was speaking his own thoughts—"and I think you might be right." She shook her head. "I just don't know how to help him."

Ponyboy glanced once at his friend. He had always thought of Ella as a smart girl, one with a head on her shoulders, one that was going places. Sure she always carried herself with an air of dependency, and sometimes, she acted as if she were uptight and unpleasant, but really, getting to know her had changed his view of her dramatically. Ella was smart, that was for sure, but Ponyboy had come to learn that she was deeply insecure and doubtful of herself. Really, he had no idea why she would fall for a guy like Dallas Winston (in his opinion, the worst of the worst) or want to help him. He wasn't quite sure that Dally even treated her all that well. Sure he took her places and sometimes did things for her, but it wasn't as if he could really offer her anything in the long run. The teen actually felt sorry for Ella, sorry that she had ever gotten herself roped into Dallas's problems. He considered her one of his good friends, trusted her opinions and judgments for themselves, but really, he thought that her and Dally together were a lousy couple, not that he would ever say that out loud or get himself involved.

"I've tried talking to him," Ponyboy admitted. "He doesn't want to read anymore of the book." Glory, but even Two-Bit had told him to take a risk to try and get through to the towheaded hood. And, of course, Darry had told him that he needed to do so as well. Ponyboy and Dallas were the closest to Johnny Cade out of the whole gang, and they were the only two left of what happened a year ago. A sigh escaped his mouth as he tossed his cigarette butt toward the street. "I'll try it one more time, Ella, for the sake of my book anyway, but . . . I just don't know."

Ella nodded solemnly. "Thanks, Ponyboy." She blinked. "I know you and Dallas aren't the best of friends or anything, and well, I know you don't exactly approve of us together"—She offered him a sideways smile—"but I appreciate everything you're doing. And Dallas . . . he does care, you know? Even if he has a lousy way of showing it."

Ponyboy snorted. That was the truth alright. He knew Dally Winston looked out for their gang, risked himself for them on more than one occasion—even Ella Mitchell—but things had changed, and they had changed a lot. He remembered seeing Dallas's face that day in the truck when he had said that he would have been better off dead . . . that menacing sound in his voice which had unnerved him. But Dallas Winston was a complex being, one that did have a lousy way of showing that he cared. And then a thought crossed the teen's mind . . . one that he had never considered until this very moment, and he knew why Ella Mitchell would fall for a guy like Dallas Winston.

He had seen her when she was invisible.

* * *

Soda was feeling a little nervous, an emotion he wasn't quite used to, especially when it came to girls . . . just not girls like Mary. He had never left town with a girl before, not even for kicks—no, he had only ever taken them to places around town, gone to events, like the rodeo or the fair . . . things like that, so the thought that he and Mary had actually left town to enjoy a little getaway was somewhat nerve-wracking. But Mary looked like she was glad to get away, to leave her life behind if only for a mere two days just to be with him. It was surreal at how far the two of them had come, and even though Mary's aunt didn't approve of them being together, at least she had backed off. Soda and her did not communicate face to face, as she would have nothing to do with him directly, but according to Mary, Aunt Vera hadn't tried anything to sabotage them.

It was almost comical to think that he and Mary had been talking about doing something like this for the past few weeks only for it to actually occur. Truthfully, even though Soda had been excited to do something like this with Mary, he personally never believed that it would happen, that he and Mary would be going away together . . . to be alone with one another. But Mary had wanted it so bad, wanted to go away with him, and more than anything, she wanted to be with him. Soda was glad that Ella had agreed to say that Mary would be staying at her place, along with Bridget Stevens, so that Aunt Vera would never suspect a thing. Oh, knowing that they were together in a relationship was one thing, but them leaving town was another. Soda knew that he was taking a mighty risk, especially because Mary was still a minor and he was eighteen. God forbid Aunt Vera find out what was going on . . .

Mary's soft voice broke his thoughts, though, bringing him back to reality. "It's nice, isn't it?" she asked, caramel eyes standing out even more as the sun rested on her face, olive complexion seeming to glow against the rays. "Just you and I?"

The golden-haired teen nodded, lips curving upward. "Sure is, darlin'." He glanced at her. "You hungry or anything? We could stop . . ."

Mary grinned, a light blush coating her cheeks. "Well, we're about fifteen or so minutes from the Arkansas River, if you want to stop there . . ."

Soda nodded. "Whatever you'd like, Mary." He offered her a gentle smile, his hand reaching out to brush against her own as she rested the map down on her knees. When he felt her fingers curl around his own for a second, he grinned. Being with Mary always put him in a relaxed mood; it was something about her soft and quiet voice that eased him, and the delicate look in her eyes that melted him. Hell, Soda had been with plenty of girls before, but none of them could compare to Mary, _his Mary_ , in his opinion. "Hey, you ever been fishin' before?" he asked, brows furrowing together.

The girl shook her head. "No, I haven't." And then her eyes drifted in his direction, taking in the look on his own face. "What's on your mind, Soda?" She leaned forward, looking at him sideways. "You have that look on your face when you're planning something."

He nearly chuckled. "I was thinkin' that, maybe, I . . . could take you fishin' one day, you know . . . if you'd like to go." His voice wavered a little. "I mean, I could teach you, if you want."

Mary was smiling, cheeks pudgy. "I'd love that, Soda." She licked her lips. "Aunt Vera never let me experience anything like that before. I was always . . . well, made to believe that women were to learn proper etiquette and such, and learn how to prepare themselves to please their husband." A sigh. "I've always dreamed of getting away, of doing all the things I've read about in my books." Her expression was nothing less of sincere as she looked at him that time. "I'm glad to experience this with you, Soda Curtis. Really, I am."

The corners of Soda's lips pulled up. "I love you, Mary, you know that, right?" And really, he did. It was something, he thought, having Mary by his side. He never deemed it possible that he could truly feel this way for someone . . . not after Sandy. But then Mary had wormed her way into his life, and there was just something about her that melted him entirely, that made him forget all of his troubles and worries. "I'm glad to be experiencin' this with you, too."

"I love you, too, Soda."

The next several minutes were spent in silence, save for the radio playing lowly in the background and Mary humming along to the song that was playing. Soda was lost in thought, though, his mind filled with ideas of all the things he could teach Mary. He knew that Aunt Vera hardly let her out of the house, except to go to Church, or to attend those ridiculous dances, or whatever. Still, he knew that Mary had yearned for more, longed to experience life to the fullest. She hated to be stuck inside; she wanted to have a small home of her own with a white picket fence and all of that. She had once relayed to Soda that she often found herself daydreaming of living in a fairy tale land of sorts, a home where she could do as she pleased, raise children in a happy and nurturing environment . . . Soda wasn't sure that he could be the one to fulfill her desires that way, but he wanted to. He wanted to be the one to make her dreams come true . . . dreams that were slowly becoming his, too.

Soda pulled off on a small trail, nothing but vast openness surrounding him and Mary. Neither of them had ever witnessed this side of the river before, and to say that it was beautiful would be an understatement. Mary had turned the radio off, her eyes broad as she looked out at the scenery in front of the truck. Glory, but it was surely something, something that even had Soda looking around with an expression of sheer wonderment.

Mary was grinning. "Soda, this is incredible."

He nodded in affirmation, a thick silence falling over them for a few moments. Soda was considering Mary's earlier words, thoughts drifting into one another as he wondered how different things would have been if the previous year never happened. He would have never been with Mary, that's what, he told himself, a frown forming on his lips. They would have never been together, this moment would never be occurring. Nothing.

Sensing his change in mood, Mary looked over at her boyfriend. "Soda, what's wrong?" she inquired, a concerned expression blanketing her features.

The teen licked his lips, eyes straight on the road ahead. "You know somethin', Mary?" he began, tone somewhat distant. "I was worried for a while that . . . that I wouldn't ever be able to feel like this for anyone ever again . . . and it wasn't just because of Sandy." He tossed her a quick look. Mary never judged him, never thought any less of him, and even more than that, she always listened to him, even when he had confided in her about his past relationships. He had been open and honest with her, and she, in return, listened. Soda was comfortable enough with Mary that he didn't mind sharing things about himself and his life with her—it simply felt natural to do so. In the same token, Mary had shared things about herself and her life with him as well; she had always been upfront and honest, even when it hurt to do so. They were just at ease around each other that opening up felt nothing short of comfortable. But Soda continued on after a short silence. "I just want you to know that I'm happy you came into my life . . . that we met, I mean."

Mary reached across the seat to let her hand rub against his arm. "I am, too, Soda. There's not a single soul that I would ever want by my side more than you." She sounded as truthful as she looked. "When I'm eighteen and free of Aunt Vera forever, we will no longer have to conceal our relationship like this, Soda." A pause. "I've always despised doing so. It feels awfully selfish of me to be the one causing you to have to sneak around like this, and often, I feel guilty having Ella, and Evie, lie for me." She turned to look at him. "You know, this might sound terribly cheesy, Soda, but if I could stop the world for just a moment to be with you, heck, I would now." There was a slight waver in her voice as she spoke those words. "Soda, I do want to be with you."

As she started moving toward him, shifting herself across the seat, Soda felt himself tensing a little. He had understood her words entirely, but . . . was this what she really wanted? He felt his throat close a little as her warm hand cupped his cheek.

"Mary," he breathed, brown eyes locking on her own.

And then her soft lips pressed against his, the warmth of her breath mingling with his as their noses lightly brushed against each other, the silent answer not needing to spoke out loud, for everything that needed to be heard had been felt.

* * *

Evie watched as Ella lamely picked at her fries, her burger and milkshake hardly touched. There was a bleak expression plastering her face, eyes downcast as if something was wrong. The younger girl was certain that something had been bugging her friend, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. Usually, Ella would come forward, unless it was something she thought she could handle on her own, but to be quite frank, Evie Martin wasn't one to just sit back and let her friends suffer in silence, either. Pursing her lips, the brunette balled up her napkin and tossed it across the booth at the other girl, waiting for some form of defense, a sassy remark . . . something.

Only Ella barely acknowledged the playful gesture, merely retrieving the napkin from where it had fallen beside her on the seat and placing it at the edge of the table beside the other garbage and things they were finished with. After that, she went back to picking at her fries, going back and forth from dipping them in the ketchup and mustard. Evie, though, had had enough, and she leaned back into the booth, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared hardly at Ella. It only took the brown-haired girl a few seconds to realize that Evie's bitter gaze was directed at her, and when she did, she let out a sigh and copied her movements.

Evie cocked an eyebrow. "Alright, Ella, what's going on?"

Ella shrugged. "It's really nothing important, Evie. I just have a lot on my mind right now." But Evie's look was one of innate disbelief, and Ella knew that the younger teen wasn't going to let her away with that answer at all. Knowing Evie, she would most likely bug her about the issue until Ella had enough and just spilled the beans. (That went both ways, though.) After a moment, Ella tossed her hands up in the air, a gesture that she had caved. "Alright, alright," she breathed, sounding somewhat miserable. "It's Dallas," she admitted.

Oh, of course it was, Evie thought, but she bit that comment back before she could actually say it. Lord knows that the last thing she needed to do was make Ella feel worse about whatever had happened with her white-haired devil. Personally, Evie had never had a problem with the notorious hood—not in general, at least—but what she _did_ have a problem with was the way he treated her friends. Oh, she remembered Sylvia crying the blues back in the day, remembered every little thing that she had come sobbing to her about. But Sylvia had been a tough girl, a whole lot different than Ella, to be perfectly honest. Well, Ella had more of a head on her shoulders, was more absolute in ways that Sylvia never was, although Evie had never judged her friend. But she had heard the multiple and dramatized stories about how much of an asshole Dallas Winston was, and well . . . she braced herself for whatever Ella was going to feed her, a scowl forming on her face—one that Ella had seen.

She quickly spoke before Evie could spit out a sly remark. "It's not what you're thinkin'," she relayed, a defensive look in her eyes. "He didn't do anything—"

"Oh, he didn't?" Evie sarcastically said, a bitter tone seeping through her voice. "Please don't tell me that you're really gonna stick up for him, El . . . not when you're bein' all miserable over him." She shook her head, fingers curling into her palms. "Glory, but—"

"I'm not," Ella interrupted, leaning forward as the words shot out of her mouth. Her voice had raised a few octaves, causing a few other customers to look in their direction, even though it was loud enough inside the diner. Ella, having drawn attention to them, instantly turned away, cheeks tinting. She took a breath, wishing that she didn't care so much about what had happened this morning. Hell, she didn't even know why it was bugging her so much. Was it because of Johnny Cade? Was it because she really just wanted to understand her complex boyfriend? Or . . . what? She didn't know. Her attention turned back to Evie, brows furrowed. "I wasn't sticking up for him, Evie," she quietly said. "I'm actually worried about him."

Evie didn't look any better, but her own eyes hinted at interest. "What happened?"

So Ella explained the same story that she had given Ponyboy earlier that day, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach as she did. She hadn't seen Dallas since he had left her last night, hadn't heard from him, or anything. She wondered if he was angry with her, although he had no reason to be, but still. Dallas had always been rather hard to understand, not that Ella was trying to analyze him. Really, she was worried about him, and she wondered how long these episodes had been happening. She recalled all of the times they had slept together, and she was certain that Dallas—for the most part—slept quietly and undisturbed. Then again, Ella usually slept quite soundly with Dallas beside her, and usually, he was always awake before her, so really, she didn't know. To be honest, Ella wouldn't have been so worried or upset if Dallas had stayed or made an appearance later in the day, but he had done neither. Perhaps, she was just being over-dramatic and silly about the whole thing. Dally would cool off and show up when he was ready to . . .

Evie seemed to reflect her thoughts, but there was a look of doubt on her face that Ella hadn't missed, brown eyes mirroring her own concern. With a sigh, the older girl went back to picking at her fries, deciding to just let the rest of the day play out. What else could she do?

With a small smile, she changed the topic. "I'll bet Soda and Mary are having fun."

"Oh, yeah," Evie replied, chuckling lightly. "You know, they make a great couple." There was a sad sound to her voice, though, for she was recalling her old friend Sandy Vincent. "I'm happy they found each other, you know?"

Ella nodded. "Absolutely."

* * *

Vera DuPres wasn't a stupid woman—far from. She wondered how it felt for Mary to think that she actually believed her concocted story. Oh, she had seen the look of excitement that had flashed in her niece's eyes, the very expression that appeared whenever she spoke of that despicable boy. Vera could never understand why her niece couldn't see reason, why she had to disobey her every given order. But Vera knew that Mary would be trouble the moment she was given custody of her. She was just like her mother that way—Vera's younger sister. Vera could remember her radiant and vibrant spirit as though she were standing right beside her, could recall the light and airy sound of her voice. Mary was the absolute spitting image of Effie with her long, dark hair and vivid caramel eyes. Vera looked at her and saw Effie DuPres standing in her place, feeling nothing but anger fueling throughout her veins.

Effie could have done better for herself, could have gone further . . . if only she didn't marry that awful disgrace named Emmett DeVaney. Lord above, but not even Vera's and Effie's mother had liked the man, going on that he wasn't suitable for a girl like Effie, and of course, her most faithful and devoted daughter—Vera herself—had done nothing more than agree with the woman. So, being the foolish and insolent girl that she was, Effie eloped with Emmett, and two years later, Mary was born. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, Alexandria DuPres was already deceased—died of a heart attack—several months before Mary's birth. The girl had only lived with her parents for a few years, until Emmett and Effie were both killed, leaving their daughter an orphan. But Vera . . . she had taken pity on the young child and offered her a home. Of course, Alexandria hadn't left her without a vast inheritance—wealth that had provided her with a life of luxury. Since Effie had eloped, Alexandria had her removed from her will, leaving everything of hers and her husband's to Vera.

Now, Mary was the only one left, and Vera was going to make sure that she didn't make the same absurd choices that her mother once did. No, Vera would not have Mary marry, or even consider a future with, that no good Curtis boy. Lord, but if she passed and Mary inherited the family fortune, that boy would—

She couldn't possibly bring herself to think of it. Vera knew that Mary would disobey her, would sneak around behind her back with him; she was just like Effie! But Vera wouldn't let the mistakes of the past repeat themselves, not this time. No. She had plans, plans to make sure that Soda Patrick Curtis was never a part of Mary's future. She had been patient with them, leading them on to believe that she had been utterly oblivious to their sneaking around. Oh, she had told them that she would not intervene with them seeing each other, but she never made them any promises.

Vera knew a man, a man by the name of Albert Webberly. Albert once courted Effie years ago, before she had met Emmett DeVaney—they were to be married. Vera remembered how heartbroken Albert had been when he had learned of Effie and Emmett eloping, and even worse, how stricken he had been to learn that they had a child together. Of course, Albert Webberly was a man of great power and wealth, and Vera had made sure to keep him as a friend throughout the years. She had once done him a great favor of sorts, one that had been kept hushed up for the past several years, and she had told him not to worry about it, that she didn't want any money in return, because Vera DuPres only wanted favors returned when they suited her, and at this particular moment, she was in desperate need of a great favor—consider it a payment of sorts.

One hand washes the other.

A lethal smile lifted the woman's lips as she picked the phone up and dialed Albert's number. If there was anyone who could possibly deal with making things happen, it was Albert Webberly. Perhaps, what she was about to do would be considered cruel, undermining, and evil, but in that moment, she didn't care—not at all. Albert could deal with Soda's number conveniently getting selected, and then . . . well, it would be all over for him and Mary, wouldn't it?

Oh, to have power and wealth was a glorious thing indeed.

"Hello, Albert Webberly speaking . . ."

"Mr. Webberly, this is Vera DuPres. How do you do?"

 _(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do  
_

 _(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	34. Worst We Could Do

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Wallflowers own "I Wish I Felt Nothing."**

* * *

 _But I hear voices  
_

 _And I see colors  
_

 _But I wish I felt nothing  
_

 _Then it might be easy for me  
_

 _Like it is for you_

 **December 5, 1966**

Clutching her stomach with one hand, Evie heaved, her breakfast coming up in the toilet as she bent forward, eyes squeezing shut. Her head was pounding hard, her chest tight, and she felt so terribly nauseous. Worse than that, the thought that she was puking her guts up in the girls' bathroom made her feel sicker. She wasn't sure why she felt this way, though, but this had been the third morning she had gotten sick. It only lasted a little while, and then she would go about her day as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Oh, but glory, she had felt absolutely terrible during the mornings, her throat unbearably raw and her abdomen somewhat cramped up. She didn't have a fever, that was for certain, and she certainly didn't have the flu, so she didn't understand why she felt so awful.

Licking her lips, Evie stood up and flushed the toilet before stepping out of the stall. The lights burned above her, making her face look flushed in the mirror. The brunette's nose wrinkled, and she reached into her bag to retrieve her makeup, deciding that a little color would make her appearance look better, or at least, more decent. She carefully fixed her eyes and blushed her cheeks, before rinsing her mouth out and popping a stick of gum into it, the mint coating her tongue and instantly making her feel much better. Glory, Evie thought, but she felt a little bloated, and she subconsciously rubbed at her stomach, considering the time of the month . . . and then her eyes broadened, lips parting ever so little.

She was late.

The girl's mind seemed to race with multiple thoughts at once, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that she swore she could hear it pumping in her ears. She couldn't be . . . no, she told herself, but there was no way. She and Steve had been careful, too careful, even, but even as those thoughts crossed her mind, Evie knew, and she knew that she was in trouble. Oh, she could remember both Sandy and Sylvia telling her that they were pregnant, the fear of God in their eyes as they had. Sandy had been sent to live with her grandmother in Florida, and Sylvia's father had sent her to California. Evie couldn't imagine what her parents would say to her, or what would happen to her. She didn't want to think about it, though, didn't even want to consider the fact that this could be a possibility for her. Hell, she was only seventeen! It wasn't fair, it wasn't—

Evie's thoughts immediately halted as she told herself to quit acting so stupidly. She would figure this out, she had to . . . her and Steve. An image of her boyfriend's face crossed her mind, and suddenly, Evie felt a knot forming in her gut. Oh, Steve, but what would he say? What would they do? There was no way that either Evie or Steve were cut out to be parents . . . they weren't even married! Oh, Lord, but Evie's mother was going to have a cow when she—

A lone tear slipped down the girl's cheek, and she found herself bent over the sink, hands covering her face as she cried. She wondered how she could have been so stupid, how this could have happened. Oh, the image of her parents' faces in her mind staring back at her with disappointment was beginning to eat away at her, and even worse than that, she didn't want to imagine what she was going to say to Steve, or worse, what her father would do. Her parents—both of them—had always been fond of Steve, but after Evie spilled the beans about this situation, she didn't want to think about how much they would hate the idea of him. Oh, hell . . .

Wiping at her eyes, Evie decided that she had to get to a doctor . . . and quickly. She needed to be sure that she was . . . pregnant. Oh, God, but even the word sounded off to her, made her feel sick all over again. She wanted to laugh at the fact that she could possibly be a mother, that Steve could be a father, her nerves rising more and more as the seconds passed. She pulled herself together, deciding that she ought to get back to class before Mrs. Girdlé could wonder what happened to her. The last thing she needed was to deal with any more trouble. Evie fixed her makeup for the second time, her head still pounding as she made her way back to the art room, lips pursed, eyes downcast. She told herself that she would come up with a plan before she did anything drastic. Oh, glory, but what she would give to make this nightmare go away.

Evie slipped into the art room quietly and made her way back to her shared table with Ponyboy Curtis, the younger teen carefully filling in his painting. She took her seat, gaze focused on her own project, a surreal feeling clouding her mind. Moments of silence passed, and Evie had yet to start working, the paint brush held loosely in her hand but not moving. Eventually, she opted for scribbling her name and doodling on a spare sheet of paper to waste time. Evelyn Lisa Martin. She considered her name, and then the conjured up image of a baby girl in her mind nearly made her feel worse. Perhaps it would be a boy, then. Steve Jr.? Golly, but she couldn't seem to think straight, and even though she was looking down, she could feel Ponyboy glancing at her every so often. Nibbling her bottom lip, the girl's eyes raised, and she felt herself sagging down a little as she met the gaze of Ponyboy, a curious look in his green orbs.

"You okay?" he asked, a softness to his voice.

Evie nodded, slow-like. "I'm fine."

Ponyboy could only stare at her, taking in the distressed look on her face. "Sure," he eventually said, going back to his work. He knew that something was wrong, as Evie was usually a very chatty girl, always ready to talk about something, whether it was dramatic gossip, herself and Steve, or whatever was on her mind—it didn't matter. But that particular morning, she had been awfully quiet, too quiet, perhaps, and Ponyboy felt that something was off. He didn't want to get on her nerves, or intervene with whatever was going on, but he did feel concerned, and he did consider Evie Martin a friend of his, or at least, a close acquaintance; he wasn't sure they were exactly friends. "Evie," he called, gaining her attention for the second time. "Are you—" He paused instantaneously at the tears in her brown eyes, the worry reflected in them too detectable to be ignored.

"Ponyboy," she said, voice trembling. "I, um . . . I—"

But Mrs. Girdlé had walked over just then, a concerned expression on her face. Apparently, Evie's behavior hadn't gone unnoticed by her, either, not that most things ever did. Mrs. Girdlé had always been an observant woman, especially when it came to her students and what was happening in her classroom. Whether it was second sight or what, Mrs. Girdlé always knew when somebody was feeling troubled, and was often sympathetic to any situation.

"Miss Martin," she said, leaning on the side of the art table. "Are you feeling well this morning?"

Evie immediately shook her head, eyes lowering once again. "Can I have a pass to the nurse?"

The teacher nodded once, and Ponyboy watched as Mrs. Girdlé wrote her a pass before sending her on her way, a feeling of worry pooling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Dallas rubbed at his nose, the chilly and biting air nipping at his skin. Fuck, but it was cold out, Winter just around the corner. He had finished mucking up the horse shit earlier that morning, and was set on unloading the bales of hay from the pickup just outside the stables. His facial skin was tingling from the light snow flusters, the wind like tiny needles pricking away at him. Jesus Christ, but the hood could remember when he was silently bitching about dripping buckets of sweat in the Summer heat, his glacier orbs squinting as another light gust of air passed by. His throat felt a little raw, and he mentally cursed Ella for possibly giving him a cold, not that he would ever admit that he was sick to anyone, but golly, Ella had a cough, and well . . . that hadn't exactly stopped him from getting some . . .

Fuckin' Ella.

Dallas's lips pressed together as he tossed another bale of hay outside of the barn, the sound of the horses in the distance catching his ears as they ran and trotted around for a little while. There was nobody there to help him, and Dallas had to wonder why in the fuck Buck was so keen on keeping on assholes who took advantage of him and didn't bother actually showing up for work. Alright, so Dallas Winston wasn't the most honest or dependable kind of guy, either, but he had been doing his fair fucking share of work around this joint and he had been helping ol' Buck out at the bar three nights a week, just like before. The two got along alright, though Buck was still a pain in the ass at the best of times, but they worked together and that was that. These other no good clowns that were supposed to be helping Dallas at the stables didn't do squat. Only once in a while did one of them bother to actually show up and do something, but most of the work was half-assed and lousy. Dallas was about ready to pummel the next prick whose mess he had to clean up. Any other time, he wouldn't have cared, wouldn't have given a Yankee dime, but with Artemis there, he found that he cared. He knew what the fuck it was like living like shit, and truth be told, he didn't like the idea of his horse being treated like that, or living like that—no sirree bub.

Another bale was tossed down, and Dallas coughed, nostrils flaring in anger. He was still swearing Ella out in his head as an old, beat-up '56 T-Bird pulled up several feet from him. At the sound of doors slamming shut, the blond stood upright, eyes narrowing at the sheer sight of Chris Marmo and three other hoods piling out of the faded blue vehicle. Dallas could tell by the expressions on each of their faces that they weren't up to any good, and his jaw clenched in annoyance. He figured that Dylan Jones was behind this visit, no fucking doubt about it. Well, Dallas smirked, it took him long enough, and what a big fucking surprise indeed—the little prick couldn't even make an appearance himself.

"Winston," Marmo called out, a glint in his beady little orbs, "I wanna talk to ya!"

Just looking at him made Dallas instantly bitter, teeth grinding together. He remembered Tim telling him that this piece of shit hassled his sister back in the Summer to get back at him with that whole territory bullshit. Now he stood in front of him, looking like he was to start some shit, and Dallas couldn't help but picture Dylan crying the blues for the stunt at the downtown bar when he socked Angela Shepard with a pool cue.

But Dallas merely glared down at Marmo and his cronies. "Yeah? So talk."

Chris licked his lips, danger lurking in the pools of his eyes as he lit a cigarette. "Don't play stupid with me, Winston," he replied. "You know why I'm here." He took a step forward, closer to the truck. "A little birdy told me you was messin' with one of my boys." His head tilted as he jerked his chin forward a little, a sign that he was trying to act superior. "That true?"

The blond only gave him a cool look as he hopped over the ledge of the truck, making his way over to where Marmo stood. Marmo wasn't much taller than him, but he was broader through the shoulders and slightly bigger. Dallas wasn't remotely intimidated by him, though—he knew he could take him one on one were that the case, but Marmo—prick that he was—had three other clowns with him. He never fought fair, not that Dallas was a saint by any means, because he most certainly wasn't. But he could play fair, so long as his opponent was, too. Marmo, though . . . he was just a fucking follower looking for recognition from the leaders—he wasn't nothin' special in Dallas's eyes. Here's the thing: Dallas had worked to make a name for himself by upping his reputation over the years. He had ran with gangs, jail was like a second home to him, and sure he was proud—he had pride because everything he had done, he had done on his own. Hell, he didn't have much to be fucking proud of, but when it came to himself and his rap sheet, he was proud. Marmo, on the other hand, did favors for gangs, switched himself around and played double agent and pawn to make a name for himself. Fuck, but Dallas wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he was sucking Dylan's dick just to have a rank in his new gang, the joke that it was. Yeah, the River Kings weren't going to last long—Dylan didn't know what the fuck he was doing, and Dallas assumed that Daxon must have been pretty out of it to put his kid brother in charge of his once notorious gang.

A scoff. "Dylan send you here?"

"That ain't what I asked."

It was Dallas's turn to smirk, an animalistic look taking over his elvish face. "You runnin' the Kings now, Marmo? That why you're here?" Something flickered in his icy orbs, a sign that he was pissed, and even though Chris Marmo knew that he didn't stand a chance alone against Dallas, he didn't back down, his three buddies backing him up. But Dallas's condescending taunts were only egging him on, lips curling back and revealing his teeth. ". . . Jones can't defend himself?"

That was all it took for Chris to swing his fist straight into the blond's right cheek, the impact of his knuckles causing his head to jerk. But the reaction Dallas gave wasn't the one Chris had been expecting at all, and when he turned back to face him, eyes glowering as a sinister grin formed across his mouth, Chris's body went cold for a second. He had heard about Dallas Winston alright, heard about what a dangerous son-of-a-bitch he was, but the look he was giving him just then was enough to make him question if Winston was as fucking crazy as everyone had said. But he didn't have time to think on it, going in for another hit before Winston could react. It didn't take all but a second or two before the other three were joining in, too, pulling Winston back before he could get one swing in.

Chris watched with sheer satisfaction as Dallas got his ass beat, Rick swinging a busted pipe down on him as Will and Travis held him down. Oh, the bastard put up a good fight, too, not even stopping when Rick repeatedly brought the metal pipe down on him over and over again. Chris only joined in on the action when he was sure that Winston was down completely, the toe of his boot making contact with his ribs a few times before he felt satisfied with his work. He took in the blond's bloodied up face and busted lips and grinned down at him as he grabbed the front of his jacket and shook him hard enough to make his head rattle back and forth.

"You stay the fuck away from the King's territory, you hear?" he said, and when he didn't answer fast enough, a solid punch was delivered to his jaw. "You think about comin' after Dylan again, this will look like nothing compared to what will happen to you next."

Dallas, for all his worth, spit directly in Chris's face, bloody saliva landing just beside his nose. He didn't care when Chris struck him again, warning him about Dylan and what would happen, and what-ever-the-fuck-else. He didn't care. Either way, Dylan fucking Jones was going to get his ass handed to him for the last fucking time. Nobody told Dally Winston what to do. Nobody. And Dylan Jones and Chris Marmo weren't going to be any exceptions. Dallas had taken the beating, one that wasn't even a payback, considering that Jones had started with Angela Shepard and he had only defended the little brat. Jones was such a whiny bitch, though—always had been. At least Daxon had more balls than his kid brother, at least he would have come after him one on one, not like this piece of shit.

"Hope you liked cleaning up shit, Winston," Chris yelled, a malevolent tone in his voice.

Dallas listened to the sound of the T-Bird's tires peeling out as he grunted, pulling himself up. His head was pounding something awful, blood pouring out of his nose. He reached up to touch it, relieved that it wasn't broken. But then something else caught his attention, the strong odor of smoke . . . Suddenly, the horses started neighing loudly, the sound of banging coming from inside the barn. Dallas ducked back down as the sound of glass shattering erupted, and then he could smell the smoke and see the flickering of fire coming from inside the barn, the bales of hay going up and jumping from one to the next in the breeze. The blond forced himself up to his feet as quickly as he could, body aching like hell, and fought his way inside the barn, the only thing on his mind being Marigold and Lady still inside, the banging being them trying to get out of their stalls.

As he made his way in, thick smoke clouding his vision, Dallas barely made out one lone cigarette butt on the ground, his anger seething as he forced himself inside. Well, if he was cold before, he felt his body heating up immensely the further he walked. It was as if he had stepped into one of his own nightmares, though, the sound of Johnny screaming as he tried desperately to find him, the sounds of his cries being the only thing that had led Dallas to his aid. Now he could only hear the horses as they, too, tried to escape, and Dallas, trying like hell not to breathe in the fumes, made his way toward the back of the barn to rescue the two Thoroughbreds. He had gotten to Lady first, opening her stall and jumping out of the way as she barreled out past him. Next, he shifted across to let Marigold out, his eyes stinging as his chest tightened. Marigold disappeared in the smoke as she ran toward the exit, and Dallas forced his legs to follow out after her. Johnny's screams echoed in his ears, and Dallas, as he ran along, was suddenly seeing the Church that day a year ago, his own weight being that of Johnny's, his ears ringing as he tried to push himself on, his body sore and running solely on pure adrenaline.

Unfortunately, Dallas's path to the exit had been blocked, and with one desperate attempt to get himself free, he kicked the door to the first stall opened and made his way to the side to get through the broken window, the wooden frame starting to catch. The hood wasn't sure if it was luck or what, but he was able to pull his body over the ledge, the few shards of glass cutting the palms of his hands and tearing through his jeans, before he plummeted to the ground and rolled toward the truck. The sound of sirens were the only thing he heard as he pulled himself into the driver's side of the truck, turning the key in the ignition and driving out into the field more.

Glory but he sure felt fucking sick.

Breathing in, he found himself choking, his body overheated and in so much damn pain. His ribs were fucking killing him, face seemingly going numb from the pain altogether. Blinking once, Dallas thought that he saw something in the distance, something, or rather someone, who looked strangely familiar . . . too familiar. But it couldn't be, could it? No, he told himself. He wasn't fucking crazy, he wasn't dead . . . or was he? Perhaps he was really asleep and having one of those fucking nightmares again. Maybe he would wake up soon and this would all be over and he would find himself in his rented room at Buck's place. Yeah . . . that sounded about right.

But when he opened his eyes again, Dallas found that he was still in the field, but he was no longer alone, for an ambulance, the fuzz, and the fire department had arrived. At that moment, Dallas wasn't sure if he should put his hands up or toss out a sarcastic remark once the fuzz realized that he was there, because he knew that he was going to be questioned. Of course he would be. And of course they were going to automatically assume that he was the culprit.

Fuck.

* * *

Ponyboy had been shocked to hear what happened to Dallas, worry lingering on his mind throughout the entire evening. He had continuously eyed the clock, waiting until he could call Ella and let her know what had happened; he didn't think Dally's first thought would be to do so. Two-Bit had broken the news to him around five o'clock or so—right before Darry had gotten in from work. The fifteen year old wasn't sure what to make of it, or anything, really. Hell, he'd been mighty surprised, and the sound of Two-Bit's voice when he'd relayed the incident let him know that he had been, too. Oh, of course the guys were used to hearing all kinds of stuff about Dally Winston, but the fact that Chris Marmo and a few other guys jumped him and burned down a barn was . . . messed up. Only Two-Bit had ran into Dallas, and then he had come back to let the gang know what had taken place.

Apparently, Dylan Jones was out for revenge because Dally went after him for messing with Angela Shepard. Ponyboy wasn't sure if Tim and Curly had paid him a visit for it or not, but he wouldn't have put it passed either of them. They were real wild cats, real hoods, the kind of characters that Ponyboy differentiated from his group of buddies. The teen didn't understand any of this mess, and to be frank, he thought the entire thing—whatever it was—was quite stupid. He knew that Dally, once he was able, was going to pulverize Dylan Jones. There was one thing that Ponyboy knew about Dally, and that was that he didn't dig guys who couldn't defend themselves, who had to have their recruits do their dirty work for them because they were too chicken to do it themselves.

But still . . . Ponyboy wasn't sure how to tell Ella about it. Dally had been questioned by the fuzz, but what it was that he told them, Ponyboy didn't know. All he knew was that there were no charges against his buddy, Buck Merril was pissed off, and that there was no investigation . . . or anything. Perhaps Dallas had simply said that it was an accident, that he had caused it, and Buck had gone along with it. That sounded about right, the teen thought, and with a short sigh, made his way over to the main rottery to call the Mitchell house. Ella should have been home, and honestly, he had braced himself for when she began bombarding him with questions—questions he didn't have the answers to.

"Hello," came Ella's soft voice, and Ponyboy closed his eyes for a second before responding.

"Ella, it's Ponyboy."

And, immediately sensing the concerned tone in his voice, Ella stiffened. "What's wrong?"

Oh, glory, Ponyboy thought . . . here we go.

* * *

Ella made her way inside Buck's, her heart pounding and her chest tightening with every step that she took. She couldn't believe what she had heard from Ponyboy, couldn't believe that she hadn't heard from Dally herself—that he hadn't bothered to call her, or show up . . . or anything. The thought alone made the girl feel upset and a little angry, but what she really wanted at that particular moment was to see Dallas alone, to talk to him and find out what had happened. Ponyboy had only been able to share so much with her, apparently unaware of the events that had played out as well. Only Two-Bit knew, according to Ponyboy, but not even he had shared all that much. The teen gritted her teeth as she maneuvered around the lone cowboys crowding the bar and the few stragglers looking for a good time, her face hinting at innate disgust as she politely rejected the offers tossed out to her.

She was able to find Dallas a few moments later, his white-blond hair sticking out like a sore thumb, and by golly did he look awful. Ella paused in her steps, lips parting and eyes softening at the sight of him, an ache forming in her chest where it had been previously clamping up. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but Ponyboy hadn't been kidding when he told her that Two-Bit had said he was pretty bad off. Dally looked like he'd been through the mill . . . and then some. His face was bruised up, his bottom lip busted, and there was a dark ring forming under his left eye. Ella's expression was a mixture of worry and disappointment as she made her way over to where he sat beside a few other guys—guys who looked like they were real hardened characters, the type of guys Ella would have been terrified to speak to in any other situation. Hell, she was nervous then, but she was also annoyed that she hadn't heard from Dallas directly. Perhaps she was being a little over-dramatic about the situation, but she was more concerned than anything, and just seeing Dallas looking like he did right then only made her stomach bubble with more worry than she had felt prior to seeing him.

Dallas noticed her before she could greet him, his eyes instantly narrowing at her petite frame as she approached him and a few guys from Shepard's gang. "What are you doin' here?" he asked, his voice gruff and bitter, a sign that he was aggravated with her presence.

Ella felt her hands growing clammy. "I came to see you," she replied, brows pressing together. Glory, but he looked worse up close, and Ella had to force herself to keep a straight face. "Ponyboy told me what happened," she went on to explain. "Two-Bit told him earlier."

He didn't look pleased that she was there at all, his face souring even more, and Ella merely stared down at him where he sat in the booth, their eyes fixed on each others. She wasn't sure why he would be pissed at her—she had only stopped in to check on him, not to preach to him, or act motherly, or anything else. Of course she had been worried, of course she wanted to see him . . . and perhaps she had been hoping that he would want to see her, too. But what she hadn't anticipated was for him to get hacked off at her, not when she had only wanted to help.

Sliding out of the booth, Dallas moved to his full height, and Ella had to tilt her head to look up into his icy eyes, the piercing blue seeming to penetrate her soul, her nerves rising to the surface as he gripped her arm and pulled her aside, away from the crowd. He practically dragged her to the back room where Buck kept all the liquor, pushing the door shut behind them. Ella was too busy eyeing the bandages wrapped around his ribs and the cuts on the palm of his hand. She quietly swallowed down the building saliva in her mouth, a yearn lingering at the forefront of her mind to reach out and touch her boyfriend, to see how badly he was really injured. But that was another thing with Dallas that Ella had come to learn . . . he never let on when he was hurting or anything. He went about his business and life even if he was messed up, never complaining or so much as wincing. Apparently, he thought he was too tough for shit like that, and Ella immediately folded her arms together below her chest, fingers curling into her palms as she turned to face him.

"You shouldn't be here," was the first thing he said, shifting so that the open flannel only offered her more of a view to the new cuts and bruises littering his skin. Hell, she could see the profound bullet wounds, too, and her gaze flickered away as she took a deep breath. "It ain't a good time, so you might as well hustle out."

Ella's lips pursed. "I just wanted to see you," she admitted, voice cracking. "When Ponyboy told me what happened this morning . . . well, I guess I . . . panicked." She shifted on her feet. "You didn't call me or anything, so I got worried."

Dallas rolled his eyes at the statement. Of course Ella got worried over something so pathetic—that was all she ever fucking did, worry about him. He didn't want her worrying about him or any of that shit, didn't want her to cry over him or nothing. What he really wanted was for her to leave, to get the hell out of there and to get back home where she belonged. His teeth pressed together as he silently wished for a blasted cigarette, something to numb his irritation before he blew the fuck up. Fuck, but it had been a long day, and the last thing he wanted was to deal with Ella. Why did she always have to show up at the wrong damn time? He had been talking with Shepard and some of his boys about calling for a rumble with the Kings. If Dylan fucking Jones wanted to play dirty, he was going to get what the fuck he had asked for.

"Well you saw me," he bit out, glaring down at her. "That all?"

The girl's eyes darkened a shade as she attempted to understand Dallas's moody behavior. Glory, but things between them had been tense, and it seemed that they were only getting worse as time moved forward, leaving behind whatever they had that was good in the past. Ella briefly wondered if it was because of Berkeley, her concern for her mother getting sicker, or because of everything strictly going on in Dallas's life. She had tried to be there for him, should he need her, but all he did was push her away like she meant absolutely nothing to him, and quite frankly, Ella was getting sick of it.

Squaring her shoulders, she looked at him, nose scrunching slightly. "Yeah, that's it, Dallas." The tone of her voice wasn't the least bit friendly, and suddenly, she regretted ever coming to check up on him in the first place. She was such a blasted fool. "Sorry I bothered you."

As she went to turn, though, Dallas's hand enclosed around her forearm, and she found her back hitting the door before she could even register what was happening. She found herself nose to nose with Dally, though, his glacier orbs burning into her own as he stared at her. He looked as if he wanted to say something, blast her or lash out, but his lips only folded back, nostrils flaring as vexation lingered on his bitter face. Ella remained still, only looking back at him with an expression of uncertainty, but she wasn't going to speak, so she waited. From how close he was, she could feel the warmth of Dallas's breathing as he exhaled, could see the tightness of his jaw, and she could hear each breath he took, the seconds seeming to pass by agonizingly slow.

And then suddenly, Dallas's palm whacked the door, and he reeled himself back. "There might be a rumble this weekend," he said, movements growing antsy and restless as adrenaline pumped hotly through his veins. "Yeah, the fucking Kings won't stand a chance . . . not if Shepard agrees to rope in some of Brumly's outfit or even the Tigers." He licked his lips, looking like a wild animal in the dim lighting. "This ain't about turfs or any of that nonsense. Jones is gonna get what's coming to him."

Ella stood still, listening with a raised brow. "Is this because of what happened with Angela?"

Dallas's bottom lip curled back. "Because the dipshit sent Chris Marmo and three of his clowns after me today . . ." He shook his head. "Ponyboy told you, huh?"

A nod. "He said he spoke to Two-Bit earlier, but waited until he was sure I was home from work to call." There was a brief pause. "I wish you told me yourself."

"Yeah, well, sweets, I've been busy," he retorted. "Figured you would have heard somehow anyway, so it don't matter none." He breathed in hardly. "Besides, how do you know I wouldn't have stopped by your place tonight?"

It was Ella's turn to roll her eyes. "Not in your condition."

Glory, but Dallas wanted to tell her that she was such a dramatic worry-wort, that she was too concerned about him and his well-being, like it meant anything anyway. But, like he'd said earlier, it didn't matter to him—there was other shit that needed to be taken care of, other matters that needed to be tended to, one being Dylan Jones and a Saturday night rumble. Yeah, that sounded about right. But Ella's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, eyes narrowing all the more at what she was saying.

". . . doesn't solve anything anyway," she said. "You all might as well fight yourselves like you're in some enormous fish bowl, because that's all it's amounting to." She shook her head, clearly irked at what Dallas and Shepard were planning. "It's just . . . _stupid!_ "

"Yeah?" He sneered. "And what the hell do you know about anything, huh?" His eyes were shifting as his bitter and menacing gaze fixated on her. Sometimes he just really wanted to knock her block off, yell at her just to get a fucking point across, but— "You know what? Do us both a favor and get the hell out of here. Just . . . go! Get out!"

Ella didn't even so much as blink at his outburst, only turned on her heel and left the room. She didn't know how in the heck she still liked Dallas so much, blaming his mood swings on everything else that was happening. Sometimes she just got really fed up with him, angry even, and then there were times when it was just the two of them and he treated her nicely, or more decently. Of course, there were also times when she vented and went off, too, but in the end, she found that the two of them somehow managed to come back to each other. It was a stupid cycle between them that drove everyone else up a wall and then some, but Ella . . . she knew she loved Dallas Winston, loved him so much that it hurt, but sometimes . . . just sometimes, she really grew so frustrated with him that she practically pulled her hair straight out of her scalp.

She told herself not to worry about Dallas anymore that night as she drove home, that things would work themselves out in the long run, like they always did.

The house was silent as she stepped inside, and she briefly wondered if her mother had gone to bed early. Usually, if Ella said she was going out, Frances would wait up for her unless she wasn't going to be home until well into the night. Of course, she had made her disdain of that particular behavior well known, but Ella had merely disregarded it and went out anyway, telling her mother that she would fine and not to worry about waiting for her. But it was still pretty early, and even though Ella knew that her mother hadn't been feeling well as of late, she would normally be sitting in the living room knitting or watching the tube, or both.

A sinking feeling crept up the girl's spine as she flicked the living room lamp on and closed the drapes, the air almost seemingly still. It was only when she stepped into the kitchen that her heart began to frantically race, eyes broadening at the sight of her mother laying on the kitchen floor, pieces of her glass mug around her along with the reminisce of her leftover coffee. Ella immediately checked to see if she was breathing, which she was, and darted for the phone to dial the operator, her teeth slightly chattering as her nerves raised to the surface, heart pounding so hard that she thought it would beat straight through her chest.

Moments later, after being connected to the hospital, Ella had been able to have an ambulance sent to the house, and for the next several minutes after that, she sat on the kitchen floor beside her mother, eyes closed as she tried to even out her breathing, wishing that she felt nothing.

 _And I know you believe that you and me don't belong here_

 _And the worst we could do  
_

 _Is keep trying to pretend we care_

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! Y'all are wonderful! :3**


	35. Made To Be Broken

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Goo Goo Dolls own "Iris."**

* * *

 _And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming  
_

 _Or the moment of truth in your lies  
_

 _When everything feels like the movies  
_

 _Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive_

 **December 8, 1966**

It was safe to say that Ella was livid, a deep crease in her forehead from the scowl on her face, brows laced together as her jaw clenched. Dallas was staring back at her with a similar expression, a cancer stick hanging loosely on his bottom lip. Ella wasn't sure what had prompted her to spend the night with him in the first place—perhaps it was the fact that she didn't want to be alone in her own house, the looming thought that her mother was in the hospital fighting for her life. The smell of her perfume was still prominent in the air of her bedroom, the shards of her broken coffee mug in a small pile on the counter because Ella didn't have the heart to throw them away. Her emotions were beginning to take a dramatic toll, but when she was beside Dallas during the night, she found that she felt better, more secure and safe than she did when she was alone. But even though the nights had been fine, the tension between them still lingered.

Ella knew that Dallas was still planning to call a rumble with the River Kings, set it for that Saturday night, and truth be told, she wasn't for it at all. Why couldn't Dallas and this Jones guy just fight it out and be done with it? Okay, Ella knew that it had to do with all that blasted gang stuff—stuff that Dallas wouldn't let her in on—but she was opposed to the idea. Hell, even Ponyboy had a few words against it, but he had also told her that he would stick with his brothers and his friends, and that was all there was to it. Besides, Ponyboy had told her, it wasn't uncommon for the gangs from their side of the tracks to fight each other, and apparently, Dylan Jones had it coming to him. But Ella's annoyance with the entire ordeal was ever present, and she had let Dallas know exactly where she stood. He didn't care, though, and he had made that quite clear to her.

Right then, however, Ella was just . . . irritated. She had spent the past few days going to work, going to the hospital to spend every moment that she could with her mother, going home to take care of a few things, like her laundry and whatnot, and then she would end up with Dallas for the night before repeating the entire thing over the next day. (It was only the third day, but still . . .) Oh, blast it, the girl thought sourly, she was just angry. There were too many other things on her mind besides a stupid rumble. Since the incident with Chris Marmo, Buck had the horses brought to his cousin's ranch, which was a half hour from his place. Dallas hadn't been too thrilled about the idea, as he wasn't getting the income from cleaning stables and training the ponies, but he did have the job at the bar three nights a week—Buck had even offered him an extra hour each night—so he wasn't doing too badly.

Things had just been awfully tense, and at that particular moment, Ella could feel another argument on the rise, her gut twisting in anticipation.

"I'm just sick of it," she bit out, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's stupid."

Dallas's lips pressed together, a harsh look on his bitter face. "Shut it, Ella."

"No," she spit back. "I'm sick of listening to you going on about it. For Pete's—"

He was off of the bed in one fluid motion, his hand wrapped around her arm roughly. "No one asked for your opinion, girl." He released her with a jerk, turning to grab his jacket that was laying on the end of the bed. "You ready or what?" His voice was hard, icy.

Ella hardly flinched at the growl in his voice, merely rolling her eyes instead. Glory, Dallas knew that she hated hearing about the rumble, knew that she didn't want to know a thing, and yet, he had started going on about it that morning, dampening her already moody spirit. He had told her that he was going to see Tim that day to get things in action, see how many men they had, find out what was what, and all that jazz. Ella, however, had given him a good piece of her mind as she had gotten ready for work, the brewing tension between them only beginning to boil.

She sneered in response. "I've been waiting for you," she retorted in a sarcastic tone, dangling the keys to the truck in her right hand. "Any longer and I'll be late."

Dallas bit back the snide remark on his tongue, instead muttering profanities under his breath as he glided passed her, expression mirroring hers. He was internally dreading driving her to work, but he knew that she would keep her trap shut for the most part, not in the mood to speak to him at all. Ella had been so fucking moody the last few days, and quite frankly, he was getting sick of her taking her pathetic frustrations out on him. He got that she was upset, understood her concern for her mother, but he was fucking sick of hearing it. Ella was hanging off his last nerve, and at that moment, he was glad that he was dropping her off at work so he didn't have to be around her. Good-fucking-Lord.

* * *

Evie's head was spinning, the sunlight making her feel worse. Everything she had done in the past few days was always with the utmost caution, the thought that she was pregnant making her worry more about everything than she ever had. Nobody knew, for Evie didn't have the courage to admit the truth to anyone. A long sigh escaped her mouth as she leaned back against Two-Bit's car, her right arm resting on the roof as she used her hand as a shade. The older greaser was busy chatting away with Ponyboy about some test or something else, but Evie was too miserable to care. Hell, she really wished that Bridget Stevens shared their lunch period, but unfortunately, she didn't. On the other hand, Evie was thankful, because Bridget was quite observant, and the brunette was certain that her behavior would arouse her suspicion right off the bat.

"Evie, you alright over there?"

The girl looked up, shrugging at Two-Bit's concerned expression. Her brows pressed together as she looked around for Ponyboy. Wasn't he just standing there? Oh, glory, she thought, but she was surely losing it.

"Fine," she answered, wrinkling her nose. "Why?"

Two-Bit eyed her for a moment. "You're lookin' a little lost, that's all." He made a face, then. "You're a bit flushed, too. You sure you're feelin' alright?"

Evie wanted to tell him to shut his trap before she shut it for him, but the inquiry only made her feel that much worse. Look, Evie was usually a tough girl in any situation, she could hold her own quite well, never one to back down, but right then—and she wasn't sure why—she felt like she was about to bawl her eyes out. Blame it on hormones or whatever, but Evie felt a wave of sheer misery fill her entire body until her eyes began filling with unwanted tears. Oh, how she hated Two-Bit Mathews at that particular moment, even though she knew that it wasn't his fault. But still . . . Hell, maybe she should have just ate lunch in the library or something. Just the thought of that made her think of Ella, and suddenly she felt sick.

It took her a moment to realize that Two-Bit's hand was resting on her shoulder, a worried look in his gray orbs as he bent down a little to be level with her. Evie couldn't contain the few tears that slipped down her cheeks, and for a second, she was thankful that Ponyboy had walked away. She had spotted him talking with Mr. Hikade, his history teacher, several feet from them, before her gaze drifted back to Two-Bit as she reached up to wipe at her moistened cheeks. She registered the concern lingering across his face, and she figured that Bridget Stevens really was rubbing off on him. Then again, Two-Bit had always been more observant and aware of things than most people gave him credit for. Sure, he was goofy and nutty, and whatever else, but Evie wouldn't deny that he really was a good friend, and he was real easy to get along with once you got to know him—the real him anyway.

"Evie," Two-Bit said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

The girl swallowed the building saliva in her mouth, lips pursing. And then she cracked. "I just don't know what to do." She paused, turning away from him and leaning her back against his car instead, her breath caught in her throat. "Hell, I am lost."

The older teen stepped around in front of her, blocking her face from the sun. "Well I don't know what's goin' on, Evie, so's unless you tell me somethin', I can't help ya." When her eyes raised, he immediately saw the impending fear resting in them, and then it hit him. His mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he were about to say something, but no words came out. For once, Two-Bit Mathews was at loss for words. Oh, hell, he thought, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead, but had she told Steve? Glory hallelujah, but this was surely something, and Two-Bit didn't know what to make of it. He cleared his throat almost awkwardly, the sound somewhat foreign and out of place. He looked back at the younger girl in front of him, asking her the one question he was dreading the answer to, but needing to hear in order to confirm his suspicions. "Are you pregnant?"

Evie slowly nodded, arms closing around her middle as if she were attempting to keep herself steady on her feet. "I haven't told anyone." Her voice was so low that Two-Bit had to lean forward in order to fully hear her. "I don't know what I'm gonna do." Her gaze shifted to the side for a moment, before it lowered to her feet. "I never thought . . ." Pause. "We were careful."

Two-Bit whistled lowly. "Well, honey, you gotta think of somethin', and that somethin' starts with tellin' Steve." His eyes were sharp as he stared at her. "He deserves to know before anyone else." He lit up a cigarette, then, inhaling slowly. "He ain't gonna be mad at you, if that's what you're thinkin'."

The girl's expression turned solemn. Steve loved her, she knew that, and she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone. No, he wouldn't be mad at her, she thought, but glory . . . what would he say, or think, or . . . anything? Evie's sole worry rested in what would become of them once she divulged the truth to her parents, and the thought alone made her chest tighten. Two-Bit was right though, she did need to tell Steve, she had to.

"I know," she half murmured. And then her face turned serious. "Two-Bit, you can't tell anyone about this . . . even Bridget."

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow, taking in the look in her eyes. Evie wasn't sure what he saw there, but whatever it was caused him to nod in understanding, his arm drooping around her shoulders in a friendly gesture. He would keep her secret for both her and Steve, even though the idea of hiding something to that extremity from Bridget wouldn't be all that easy. But for the time being, he figured it was safe with him . . .

* * *

". . . and Darrel's in, then?"

Dallas nodded, a stoic look blanketing his face. Word had it that Jones was trying to double his own numbers by buying the Tigers off to join his side in the upcoming rumble. But it didn't matter none, because with the Curtis gang, the Shepard gang, and the Brumly Boys, Dallas figured Jones and his crew didn't stand a chance. It was a no weapons fight, skin on skin only—that was the rules. Dallas knew that information would please Darry quite well, for he worried about both of his kid brothers in fights when knives, chains, and the like were involved. Well, he didn't have to worry this time. Still, Dallas was itching to beat Marmo down with a pipe, show him how the fuck it felt. Truthfully, the beating wasn't anything new to Dallas, who'd had his own fair share of physical assaults too many times to count—Marmo was a blasted pussy.

Tim's expression was stern, an ambitious look in his eyes. "Even with the Tigers, Jones is fucked." A grim smirk ghosted his lips. "Wouldn't be surprised if he backed out, the fuck."

The blond snickered darkly. "Daxon must've been high off his kite to put his dumbass kid brother in charge." He shook his head. "Hell, I thought he had more brains than that, but I guess I was wrong." A grin. "Yeah, Dylan is gon' run the Kings straight into the ground, he don't have what it takes." And that was the truth, Dallas thought cockily. Dylan wasn't Daxon by a long shot, and he didn't have the brains or the followers to keep him going. If this rumble didn't show him that he was gonna get his ass handed to him, then he was going to fade out. Hell, but if the gang he was paying to side with him were already dying out, according to Curly Shepard, they weren't gonna be interested in this. "Call it for seven Saturday night."

A nod. "I bet Jones is hiding behind Marmo like a dog with its tail between its legs." He lit up a cancer stick, inhaling and leaning back into the couch. "The empty lot by Darrel's place?"

For a second, Dallas's face twisted, and he was suddenly reminded of the last time he was in a rumble, the same night Johnny Cade died and the same night he had almost died along with him. It seemed like forever ago, but it had only been fifteen months. A scowl crossed the blond's face as he tried to shove those fucking thoughts aside; he didn't have time to recall his past or Johnny Cade. But then that stupid letter came to mind, and he could almost hear Johnny's soft voice telling him that fighting wasn't any good, that he oughtta quit and watch a sunset once in a while. Dallas could feel his jaw clenching, his teeth grinding together. Fuck what Johnny had said. He was going to pummel Jones and Marmo both, he was going to be at that rumble Saturday night at seven o'clock.

He needed a good fight.

"Yeah," he answered, a bitterness seeping through his voice. "I'll let the boys know the drill."

Tim watched Dallas leave, the side of his lips curved down. There was a cool sensation creeping up and down his spine, and for a moment, Tim considered Dallas. Usually, he wasn't the type to care about anyone but himself (sometimes his bratty siblings), but there was a strange feeling lurking around him, and the older hood couldn't quite put his finger on it. What was it? Premonition? He didn't know, and even though he told himself that he didn't give a shit, he couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling that either something was going to happen, or that something was wrong.

* * *

Ella heard the roar of the truck before she saw it, and she stepped closer to the road as Dallas pulled up, his gaze meeting her own through the windshield. He pulled up in front of the store, and as Ella began approaching the vehicle, he rolled the window down, a curious expression on his face. He was able to detect the slightly annoyed look on his girlfriend's face, though it wasn't aimed at him. Usually, Ella always looked more cheerful when he occasionally picked her up from work, but at this particular moment, she looked the furthest thing from. Dallas cocked an eyebrow as Ella came to a stop beside the truck, her eyes on his.

"What?" he asked, a briskness in his voice.

Ella licked her lips. "Ginger asked me to stay late to cover the rest of Shannon's shift. She had to leave early because she got sick."

Dallas turned his head, rolling it back on the headrest, an irritated expression coating his face. "What time do you get off?"

"Six."

Only a few hours, he noted, though it didn't excuse his pestering frustration. He was silent for a brief moment as his fingers repeatedly tapped the side of the steering wheel, and Ella could tell that he was somewhat annoyed. She would have called him, if only he were at Buck's, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway, simply because Ginger had sprung the question on her at the last minute, and Ella, though she wanted to politely decline, figured that some extra money would be very beneficial, especially with her mother being in the hospital again. Glory, but she knew the medical bills were going to be costly, and truthfully, she was still paying off the expenses from her last visit. It had been a lot easier when her mother had gone back to work—the extra income had been good—even though Ella herself had been against the idea. Still, she was the only one working again, and even though the bills were going to pile up and get paid off in small increments, Ella didn't want her mother going back to work at all, not in her condition.

The girl frowned at her own thought, deciding that there was no way that she could attend Berkeley now, not with the situation she was facing. No. She couldn't go to New York and leave her sick mother behind in Oklahoma. It wasn't right, and golly, but she would never be able to think straight or sleep at night with the constant worries lingering in her thoughts.

Dallas's voice pulled her back to reality. "You got anything to do tonight?" he asked, turning back to face her. "Laundry or any of that shit . . ."

A sigh escaped her lips. "I guess it can wait until tomorrow." She blinked, bringing a hand up to rub at her forehead. "I'll have time to see my mother that way, you know." There was a small crack in her voice, one that most people wouldn't have picked up on, but Dallas knew Ella, and he knew that she was going to start getting herself worked up for umpteenth time. "I don't want her to think that I don't want to spend any time with her, because that's not—"

"Ella," Dallas said, interrupting her, tone clipped. "Knock it off." He gave her a look, taking in her tense form, before shaking his head. "I'll see you at six, yeah?"

Ella nodded, but before Dallas could pull away, she stepped forward onto her tiptoes, leaning up through the window to kiss him once. She pressed her lips to his lightly, before pulling back just a tad, her face brushing his own for a moment. She lingered there for only a second, and then she stepped back, her expression torn, as if she was about to crumble on the spot. Dallas told her to get inside, that he would see her later, and waited until she had turned to head back into the store before he took off, lips pulled into a tight line, his right hand whacking the dash as a growl of anger erupted from his throat.

* * *

Steve's eyes were wide, body seemingly frozen in its spot. He couldn't believe what Evie was telling him, couldn't believe the words that had just come out of her mouth. He knew something had been off with her, he'd known for a few days, but he had never, in a million years, expected this. Never. She was pregnant with their child—their child. Holy hell, but Steve couldn't find the words to form, couldn't even make a straight sentence if he wanted to. Beside him, Evie looked no better, her own gorgeous brown eyes filled with tears, her makeup running down her cheeks, and her voice fading in and out every time she went to speak. She had told him that she needed to speak to him, that it couldn't be over the phone—she had to see him, face to face. There had been a deep, penetrating and desperate plea in her voice that caused innate worry to bubble in Steve's gut, the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong. Usually, Steve was the type of guy to keep his cool, to remain level-headed, but when it came to Evie and his friends, that was a whole other story.

Right now, though, he didn't know what to think.

"Steve," came Evie's trembling voice. "Say somethin', please."

The older teen stood up, patting his legs as he did. For a minute, he paced back in forth in front of his girlfriend, who was still seated on the bench. Glory, but it was chilly out, Steve thought, running a hand though his greasy hair, but the multiple thoughts swarming through his mind hardly allowed him to concentrate of any physical discomfort. Well, at least nobody would bother them, not at the old park; nobody came there anymore, and it wasn't like they would at this time of day anyway. Finally, Steve came to a stop, turning to face Evie, his eyes reflecting a vast variety of emotions.

"Evie," he said, tone low and gentle. A pause. "We're gonna get through this. We'll figure somethin' out, the two of us, and then we'll . . ."

Evie's eyes were sharp. "We'll what, Steve? Huh?" She wiped at her face, frustration seeping into her voice. "My parents are going to kill me, and don't even get me started on my father!"

Steve remained collected on the outside, but on the inside, he was practically shaking. Evie was right, her parents were going to kill the both of them, and he had no doubt that Mr. Martin was going to do more than have just a few words with him. Hell, he and the older man had always got on alright, had a few chit-chats here and there, but . . . glory, this was one way to earn a death certificate. Steve's lips folded in as he tried to come up with some kind of solution for him and Evie, but all his mind conjured up was a blank, a big empty void of nothing. Evie wasn't ready to be a mother, and hell, he certainly wasn't ready to be a father, but Evie made it clear that she was going to carry the baby no matter what, and then . . . whatever happened would happen. The fact still remained, though . . . she needed to tell her parents. They needed to know first and foremost. There was one brooding thought plaguing Steve's mind, though, and that was what was going to happen to Evie . . .

He exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, taking Evie's hands in his own. "Look, Eve, we just gotta take this one step at time, alright?" He was surprised at how soft his own voice was right then. "We'll figure it all out."

Evie could do no more except pull herself into his arms, her face pressed against his chest as she tried to even out her breathing. Her fingers curled around his jean jacket as she latched onto him, tears falling down her cheeks as she finally let herself cry. Steve wrapped his arms around her shaking form, resting his chin atop her head as he wondered what was going to happen, what would become of them, and most importantly, what was going to happen with Evie's parents. He would be nineteen in a little over four months, but Evie . . . she was still seventeen. Well, there were only two months until her birthday, but until then, she was still a minor.

"I'm so scared, Steve," Evie mumbled, teeth chattering from all of the nerves and emotions wracking her body.

His only response was to hold her tighter.

* * *

Dallas wasn't sure what brought him to the hospital, even if there was a lingering thought in the back of his head going off about Ella. Hell, he just couldn't get the fucking image of her pathetic face out of his mind, and even though he'd had intentions of going to speak to Darry Curtis, the nagging sensation looming around the pit of his gut had led him in another direction entirely. He stood in the main lobby, a scowl plastering his face. Maybe he just really wanted to tell Ella's old lady that she wouldn't be dropping by that night, that she was too tired. Fuck. If Ella found that out, she would probably come after him like the loony dope she was. Dallas knew that Ella didn't think he really paid attention to her, didn't care to notice the things she did, but he did, and he knew that she was worrying herself sick over her mother's illness, the issue ongoing since early Summer. What Ella needed was to shut her brain off and get a good night sleep, before she died of some stupid health problem.

The teen shook his head, before he was pulled out of his thoughts by one of the nurses behind the desk, her face somewhat stony as she eyed him carefully.

"Can I help you?"

A nod. "Yeah," he answered, making his way over. Glory, but he sure hated hospitals. "I'm lookin' for a . . . Mrs. Mitchell." What the hell was her first name again? Shoot, Dallas couldn't really remember it, even though he was certain Ella had mentioned it once or twice. Something like . . . Annie? Janice? Or was it . . . Shit. Fran? His lips pursed. "Frannie Mitchell."

The woman gave him an odd look as she told him to hold on a moment. She stepped away from one side of the desk, before shifting across to speak to another woman. Dallas was drumming his fingers on the counter, eyes slightly narrowed. Okay, so maybe he didn't pay attention to everything that Ella said, but he did notice the things that she did, the things that mattered, or well, what he thought mattered. At the rate they were going, Ella probably knew more about him than he knew about her, though that was only because of Ponyboy's blasted book. Stupid punk. Before he could ponder that specific subject, the woman made her way back to tell him what floor _Frances_ Mitchell was on, and what room she was in. Truthfully, he felt like an idiot making his way up to the woman's room, the very woman who despised everything about his mere existence, and for what, all to relay a message about Ella? Yeah, he sure even sounded like a moron—in his own head, at least.

Tapping once on the door, Dallas stepped inside, his eyes taking in Frances Mitchell. She was laying on the bed, eyes focused on the book she was reading. Her skin was real ashen looking, expression tired as she took slow but steady breaths. The teen had only ever encountered her once, and that had been several months back when he'd showed up at the Mitchell house looking for Ella. Thinking about that seemed like forever ago, but Dallas didn't forget the dislike that had made itself present in Frances's voice, or the flash of fear that had flickered through her blue eyes—eyes that reminded him of Ella right then, only lighter in color. Frances stared at him, gaze reflecting undeniable shock. He figured that she would be surprised to see him, of all people, visiting her in the hospital, but he was more stunned that he was even there.

She looked like she wanted to say something harsh, make a sarcastic comment, but instead she waited for him to speak up, almost as if she was too proud to do so first.

"Don't know if you remember me or not," he began, tone coming out hard. "Just came by to give you a message 'bout Ella."

Mrs. Mitchell's face was blank. "I know who you are, Dallas Winston. I wouldn't have to remember you in person to know who you are." Though her voice was terribly weak, there was a combination of humor and disgust in it. "Where is Ella?"

"Workin' late," came the immediate response. "She ain't stoppin' by tonight."

"She said that?"

Dallas rolled his tongue over the front of his upper teeth. "She is working late tonight, so before she starts rushing around and worrying herself to the bone, I decided to change her plans for the night, that way she ain't overloading herself in one day." When Mrs. Mitchell began to protest, Dallas continued on quickly, his voice overriding her own. "Look, lady, I know you don't dig me or nothin', but I'm only here because—" He paused. Because what? "Because Ella asked me to talk to ya." There, that sounded a lot better than the words that passed through his mind. He wasn't fucking whipped. "She wants to come, but she wanted me to talk to ya and all that jazz, so here I am." One corner of his mouth twitched as a bitter smile made itself present there. "Since I'm driving her home after her shift, she told me to swing by and check in on ya."

That sounded good, even though Dallas knew that Ella was going to bitch and put up a fuss, yell his fucking ears off, and whatever else. Still, there was a phone, and she could call later that night and check on her mother. He wasn't sure how she was going to take it that he had stopped in to talk with her, especially because she had made it clear that her mother absolutely did not like him, and she certainly didn't support their relationship, not that the hood gave a goddamn, because he didn't, plain and simple.

Frances's expression turned. "I have nothing to say to you. I will talk with my daughter either over the telephone, or when she is able to get here."

Dallas smirked. "Well, that will either be real late tonight, or . . . tomorrow evening." Inwardly, he was a mixture of pleased that she despised him because of his reputation—he was sure proud of it—but he was also . . . irked that she was treating him like shit. He was a hood, a JD, and hell, he breathed for it, lived for the action, and he didn't care who had to say what about him, but right then, he felt a little annoyed with Mrs. Mitchell. Maybe it was because, somewhere, he could almost see Ella's face in her own, hear an older version of her voice. He blew those thoughts off, telling himself that none of it mattered. "I'll let her know what you had to say."

There was a brief silence that engulfed them as Dallas turned his back to leave, but Mrs. Mitchell's voice rang out from behind him, causing him to stop abruptly at the words she'd said.

"I don't believe you." When he turned to face her again, there was a knowing look on her face. "I don't believe that Ella asked you to talk to me, or stop by at all." Her eyes gleamed. "You may think of me as some fool, but I wasn't born yesterday, Dallas Winston." Her eyes bore into his own for a good few seconds, and she remembered how Ella used to try to talk to her about him, about them, how bright and dreamy her eyes became whenever she mentioned his name, or how deep they grew because she knew how much he wasn't liked. Frances didn't regret her decision—that she didn't want her daughter to be with a no-good hoodlum like Dallas Winston—but she regretted never listening to her daughter, never hearing what she had to say. Ella might as well have kept the relationship a secret, because Frances made it a point to distance herself from it, or pretend that it wasn't real. Right then, though, she could see Dallas Winston for what he really was, and with that knowledge, she did the one thing that Ella had practically begged her to do. "Take a seat. I'd like to talk with you."

* * *

Ella stepped out into the cool evening air, her gaze shifting around for Dallas's truck. Her shift had ended nearly fifteen minutes ago, and her boyfriend was nowhere in sight. A sigh escaped her lips as she looked up and down the road, the sky overhead already dark, the dim streetlights illuminating the area. The girl wondered where Dallas was, or if he had conveniently forgotten to come and get her, not that she would suspect that. Then again, Dallas had always been a little . . . scattered, and Ella wouldn't really classify him as someone who was dependable. But usually, he kept his promises when he said he would be somewhere—sure he had been late before, but never past ten minutes. Ella licked her lips, telling herself that she was being over-dramatic. Dallas would be there. He would. With that thought in mind, she stepped off to the side between the alley separating the laundromat and the old warehouse, lighting up a cigarette. Her shoulders drooped a little as she leaned back against the exterior, her eyes closing for a second or so.

What Ella didn't expect was to be approached by three guys. They looked hard and rough, the menace and cynical expressions in their eyes reminding her strongly of Tim Shepard and his gang. She hadn't realized that she had dropped the cigarette, her eyes broadening as she wondered what they wanted, her body immediately shifting into hyper-drive. Whoever these guys were, they didn't look friendly, and Ella wondered if they were friends of Dylan Jones, or Chris Marmo. Either way, it didn't matter, and she suddenly felt very, very afraid.

"Hey there, sweet thing," the one in front greeted, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a step closer to her, the other two following suite until they formed a small circle around her. "You must be Ella, right?" A smirk. "Ella Mitchell?"

The one to her right sneered. "Quit playin' around, Shane." His voice was harsher, cooler. He eyed Ella with piercing eyes. "We came here to do a fuckin' job, now do it."

Shane's nose wrinkled; he didn't like being bossed around, apparently. "I don't take orders from you, Chris, so shut your fucking mouth." He turned back to face Ella. "You didn't answer my question, girl. Is your name Ella?"

"Who are you?" Ella asked, her own voice wavering. She had never seen these guys before, and judging from the fact that Shane had called the second boy Chris, she assumed that he was Chris Marmo, the same guy who had attacked Dallas. She felt hot anger boiling through her veins, eyes narrowing as she looked at him. "You're Chris Marmo."

She was answered with a feigned laugh. "You's a smart one, broad." His entire demeanor was nothing short of condescending. "I see why Winston picked this one." His hand reached out, fingers coming in contact with her left cheek as he lightly brushed it. "Bet I could show you a good time . . ." The other two joined in on his laughter, and Ella shifted away as much as she could. Chris, though, wasn't having it, and his hand dropped, curling around her hair and yanking it. The gasp that spilled from her lips only encouraged him, and he pushed himself up against her. "Here's the thing, sweetheart, your fuckin' boyfriend started in on one of my buddies, and now he thinks he's callin' for a rumble." He licked his lips, mouth moving beside her ear. "Thinks he's funny or something sendin' Tim Shepard after Dylan Jones, so we're here to send him a message back." The knife was at her throat before Ella could even fully register the sound of it flicking out. "Winston wants to play dirty, I'll give him what he wants."

Eyes broadening, Ella used all the force she had to shove Chris off of her, a loud yell for help emitting from her mouth as she tried to run out of the alley. She heard the roar of the truck, her heart beating twice as hard as it rounded the corner up ahead, the headlights flashing on her form as Chris pulled her back, Shane and the other boy blocking her path. Chris pushed her hard, her back hitting the brick exterior of the laundromat and knocking the wind out of her. Ella was no fighter, but right then, she panicked, and she began swinging at him in a desperate attempt to get free. She had gotten a hold of his one arm, before Shane grabbed her and held her back.

"Dallas!" Ella cried out, hearing a door slam, and then the sound of racing footsteps headed in their direction. She called out for him again, trying to kick Chris and fight off Shane. Unfortunately, she wasn't quick or strong enough, and just as her eyes connected with Dallas's, Chris brought the knife down and slit her forearm. She made a sound like a gasp and a grunt, brows lacing together and then raising as her eyes closed and then opened again. She stumbled back as Dallas went after Chris, shoving Shane and the other guy out of the way. "Dal—" She went to say again, but could only watch as Shane took off, his buddy following him, as Dallas grabbed the knife from Chris's hand.

Dally, though, wasn't playing around, a dangerous glint in his icy orbs, a look that Ella had never seen before, and she instantly took a step back. Dallas nearly pummeled Chris, going after him with the knife until Chris stepped backward, jaw clenched as he grabbed Ella by the back and shoved her forward. He took off in the opposite direction, Ella colliding against Dallas's torso as he threw the knife at the back of Chris, the sound of it hitting the ground seeming to echo about the alley.

He never looked back.

Once Marmo was gone and out of sight, Dallas turned back to face Ella. He was too livid to notice the look of shock across her pale features, or the fact that she was slightly quivering. He grabbed her by the arm to inspect the wound from Marmo's knife, brows lacing together as his lips curled. It would require some stitches, but it wasn't life threatening. Ella heard Dallas speaking to her, heard him tell her that he was taking her home, that he had stopped by the hospital to see her mom, that everything was good and she could see her tomorrow. She had heard him, but she wasn't fully registering anything that he was relaying to her. She remained silent during the ride back to her house, her gaze focused out the window, her mind elsewhere. She wasn't shaken up too much by what had occurred with Chris Marmo and his two friends, but she was rattled over what she'd witnessed with Dallas.

It was completely dark out by the time they'd arrived at her house, and glancing at the clock, Ella had realized that the amount of time that passed between her walking out of the laundromat and she and Dallas pulling up in front of her house had been rather short. Replaying the events in her mind, though, made it seem like forever had past.

"You got any alcohol or somethin' in this place?" Dallas asked, and when Ella directed him to the bathroom, he pulled her along with him. She let him rummage around the medicine cabinet, before he had inquired about a needle and some thread. Ella was too tired to even consider what was happening, so she told him where he could find her mother's knitting supplies—beneath the table in the living room. He was back in a minute, his eyes focused as he took hard breaths. Ella was situated on the sink counter, her eyes on the ceiling as she rested the back of her head on the space between the mirror and side wall. "The fuck happened back there?"

Ella's gaze shifted so that she was looking at him. "I was waiting for you," she said, voice hardly above a whisper. "That's all." She breathed in sharply. "I didn't even hear them approach. It's as if they were waiting for me. I guess they didn't know that you would—"

But Dallas had cut her off, voice harsh as he helped her out of her jacket. "Fuckin' pussies," he said, beginning to unbutton her blouse. The red of her blood had seeped through the material, staining the pale color. Ella grimaced lightly as Dallas pulled it away from her skin, his face reflecting anger as he looked at it. He went on to mutter a few swears under his breath as he coated a cotton ball with the alcohol, a bitter resentment aimed at Dylan Jones and Chris Marmo in his eyes. He knew what the fuck was going on—Dylan was pissy because Tim Shepard called the rumble. The little prick must have been shaking in his boots, scared out of his fucking mind. Dallas shook his head, wishing he had a damn cigarette to settle his nerves, but his attention turned to Ella as he moved her arm to rest on the towel rack beside them. The cut wouldn't require too many stitches, but still . . . "Almost wish I could offer you some whiskey or somethin', but I reckon y'all don't keep that shit laying around here."

Ella shook her head. "No."

Goosebumps formed across her skin, the hairs on her arm standing as Dallas's fingers made contact with it. He moved to stand between her legs, her body seeming to tense as he dabbed the submerged cotton ball over the cut. Ella let out a sharp breath of air, her legs stiffening as she gritted her teeth, eyes squeezing shut. To distract her a little, Dallas began telling her about his visit with her mother, not that there was much to tell. They had talked for a while—quite a while, actually—before he'd gone to drop the news about the rumble to Darry. That had been his holdup. Still, he went on to tell Ella about how her mother was doing and whatever else, his voice low and steady as he began stitching the wound up, the sound of her breathing in his ear.

It felt like ages had past before Dallas finished up, Ella hanging onto his every word as he worked, his voice somewhat of a comfort to her. He wrapped her arm up afterward, giving it a brief inspection to make sure it was all good, which it was. Ella sat still as Dallas put the things back in the cabinet, the needle wrapped in a towel beside the thread. She licked her lips to moisten them, a slight shiver going up her spine. She didn't want this stupid rumble to happen, didn't want Dallas to fight in it, either, but she knew there was no way that she was going to stop him, no way in hell that he would rationalize or listen to what she had to say. Besides, now that Dylan Jones had sent Chris Marmo and two others after her, it had only given Dallas more encouragement—more of a reason—to go after him and participate in the fight. Ella wanted to snort, knowing that the excuse wasn't exactly her in general, but the fact that the events earlier that evening had played out.

She sighed, fingers curling around Dallas's wrist. She felt his eyes on her as she tugged him forward, every single nerve seemingly riding the surface as her emotions came barreling up with them. There were too many of them to ignore, so Ella did the only thing she knew how to, which was forget. She considered herself and Dallas for a second, finding some odd humor in the fact that they had been so abrupt and harsh with each other that morning, and now they were back to square one all over again, or so it seemed. But these moments were always short lived, always seeming to happen so quickly before dissipating entirely until either she or Dallas happened to rebound. Ella didn't know what she felt in that moment, but she knew that it was a lot. Dallas, though, was a mixture of feelings, anger always at the base of anything that he felt. Inside, Ella had come to learn, he was a broken soul, the pieces around him scattered but not lost. The difference between them was that Dallas needed to pick them up and put them back together whereas Ella needed to reorganize her own. Hell, she remembered the beginning of the Summer when everyone, including her mother, had done nothing but encourage her to go out and have fun and let loose. And she had. Now she wasn't sure who she was, or what she wanted to do, or rather, what she was supposed to do.

Dallas didn't object when Ella leaned up to kiss him, her hands reaching around his neck and easing him down to meet her halfway. He could feel her fingers tangling in his hair, feel her flush body warm against his own. She deepened the kiss, hands pushing his jacket off of his shoulders before reaching under his shirt and moving along his torso. A breathy moan spilled from her mouth as his lips connected hotly to her neck, his fingers unhooking her bra and tugging it off. A sad smile touched her lips as she latched onto him, wanting nothing more than to feel him against her. She was answered as he worked her skirt up her thighs, her eyes slipping closed.

No words needed to be spoken.

 _And I don't want the world to see me  
_

 _'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
_

 _When everything's made to be broken  
_

 _I just want you to know who I am_

* * *

 **Only a few chapters left, y'all!**

 **Thank you for all of the continuous support on this story! It's very much appreciated! :3**


	36. How It Ends

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lumineers own "My Eyes." **

* * *

_Oh, the devil's inside  
_

 _You opened the door  
_

 _You gave him a ride  
_

 _Too young to know, too old to admit  
_

 _That you couldn't see how it ends_

 **December 10, 1966**

"You sure you're alright?" Evie's brown eyes searched Ella's face, her lips pressed down. Her friend had spent practically every hour that she could at the hospital the past two days due to her mother's rapidly declining health. Evie was concerned, more than concerned, and not just for Mrs. Mitchell, who she had grown quite fond of, but for Ella. The older girl hadn't looked well, circles under her eyes and a seemingly permanent frown on her mouth. Evie could see the worry etched about her face, hear the strain in her voice from how often she cried, but still, she continued to remain strong, saying that she didn't need help with anything, and that she was fine. But Evie knew better. Her eyes drifted across the room where Mrs. Mitchell rested, her face almost looking peaceful. "I could bring you something up from the cafeteria if you're hungry," came the following offer.

Ella shook her head. "Thank you, Evie, but I'm not feeling hungry right now."

Evie wanted to tell her that that was part of her problem—the fact that she wasn't eating. On the other hand, she rationalized that perhaps, with how upset she'd been, eating might not bring her as much comfort as it normally would. Evie knew that the rumble that night was only harboring more brooding thoughts for Ella, for part of her worry rested with Dallas, who—of course—would be participating beside the Curtis brothers, their friends, which meant Steve, the Shepard gang, and a few boys from Brumly. Evie usually didn't involve herself in the gang wars, but when it came to Steve, she worried desperately. Hell, she could remember that one time he'd gotten picked up and had to spend the night in jail . . . She had bawled her eyes out until the following morning when she saw him. Evie didn't want to think about that, though, didn't want to imagine what Ella was feeling. What she wanted was to change the subject, but as those thoughts crossed her mind, she felt a sharp pain in her stomach, a hiss escaping her mouth as she clutched her middle, teeth pressed hardly together.

"Evie," Ella called, her attention turning to her friend. "Are you—"

Evie shook her off, though. "It's . . . it's nothing, Ella." She took a breath, standing up straight and trying to ignore the cramping sensation in her lower belly. She told herself that she was worrying herself sick . . . and too much stress wasn't good for . . . wasn't good for her, or the baby. That thought alone caused her to rub at her forehead. She and Steve were planning to tell her parents the next day, a Sunday, because it would be easier to tell them together. Evie's father worked during the evening and into the night while her mother worked mornings to late afternoons at the salon, unless she took special appointments, but that was only for special occasions. Evie shook her thoughts off, blinking once, as she turned back to Ella. "You sure you're not hungry?"

A nod. "I'm sure."

The brunette sighed. "I know it's a lousy time to ask, but I was thinkin' about your birthday, and well, I don't know how you feel about doin' anything—"

Ella's soft voice sounded dry as she spoke. "I can't, Evie," she interrupted, though not to be snarky or cold. Her shoulders dropped as she leaned against the wall just outside the room. "I really haven't been thinking about my birthday." Her lips pursed. "It feels so strange, don't it?" At Evie's bewildered look, she continued. "How different things were a year ago, I mean."

"Oh, yeah," Evie immediately agreed. "And look at all of us now."

"I know."

A brief silence engulfed them for a moment, and Evie found herself wondering if she ought to tell Ella the truth about herself. But then she instantaneously felt guilty for doing so. Her parents didn't know, her sister didn't know, she had made Two-Bit Mathews swear to keep his trap shut, especially to Bee Stevens, because she was too afraid of what people would say, and furthermore, she was half afraid to even admit the truth to herself. Most of the time, she found herself thinking that she was just imagining the situation, that it wasn't real, that it was all in her head. Hell, honestly, she had been surprised to learn that Steve was going to stick with her through everything—for as long as he was able to, that is, which neither of them knew. It wasn't that Evie didn't trust Steve, she knew that he loved her, that he cared about her, but it was just the realistic revelation of what happened with most girls when they ended up pregnant. The guy was either slacking off, or cheating, or . . . Evie was terrified of any of those possibilities coming into play. Even worse, she was afraid that Steve wouldn't want to be with her once she started to show, once people knew the truth. There were only five and a half months of school left and then she would be free. She no longer would have to worry about that aspect of things, though that wasn't the least of her concerns.

She shook her head, eyeing the clock. "You're not gonna be sittin' here all day by yourself, are you?"

Ella made a face. "Dally is supposed to stop by this afternoon." She crossed her arms beneath her chest, head tilting to one side just a little. "He said he was stopping by Ponyboy's beforehand, so . . ."

"He ever finish that book?"

The older girl nearly snorted. "I don't think he's touched it in . . . months?" A sigh. "I know Ponyboy needs his name on the consent form by the end of this month, or else he loses the contract, which means that he'll have to start all over again." Her gaze shifted to the floor. "I really wish he would just finish it. It would be good for him . . . and Ponyboy."

Evie nodded in agreement. "I guess some things just take time." She nodded toward her. "Has he been okay with those nightmares?"

Hell, Ella had nearly forgotten that she told Evie about Dallas's issue. She figured he'd probably knock her head against a brick wall if he found out that she'd mentioned it to someone, not that he really even knew that she was aware of it in the first place. Ella had done a pretty good job at keeping things to herself that way, not letting on that she knew about her boyfriend suffering night terrors that were all stemming back to the events of September 24, 1965. A shiver crept up her spine as she remembered reading Ponyboy's book, and she could only hope that Dallas would benefit positively from reading it, too.

"Yeah," she answered Evie in solemn voice as she turned to peer into the room to eye her sleeping mother. "He's been okay."

Evie wasn't sure if she believed her.

* * *

There was a newfound confidence surrounding Ponyboy as he told Dallas that he'd been meaning to talk to him for a while now. His eyes were swarming with a look of sheer determination—no longer was he cowering back, no longer was his voice low and unsure sounding. In fact, his exterior was collected and straight, the tone of his voice directed and firm. Dally merely stared at him, one eye slightly more narrowed than the other. His head was tilted just a little, his chin raised as smoke billowed out of his mouth, circling the two of them for a moment before dissipating into the air. Hell, but it was chilly out, the blond thought, but he didn't mind none. He hadn't meant to stay all that long at the Curtis's place anyway, only dropping by to talk to Darry about the rumble that night. Unfortunately, Darry was picking up some groceries, leaving Ponyboy to clean up the house before the social worker stopped in. Luckily for Soda, he was eighteen, so him being present didn't really matter as much as it did for Ponyboy, who still had two and a half years left until he was free of the state's harassment.

Well, either way, Dally had gotten stuck with the kid until Darry got back, and then he would swing by the hospital to see his girl. He'd been a bit worried about her recent behavior as of late, not that he would ever bother saying that shit to anyone—hell, he wasn't no blasted pansy ass. Fuck. He shook his head of those thoughts, turning his attention back to Ponyboy, expression fixed.

"Yeah?" he said, flicking his ashes. "What about?"

Ponyboy looked ever calm, though. "About my book." His eyes drifted over to his older buddy, taking in the look plastering his face. "Have you finished it?"

Now Dallas scowled bitterly. "How many times are we gon' go over this, kid?" His ability to keep cool was threatening to crack. The damn book reminded him of Johnny Cade, and Johnny Cade reminded him of his fucking nightmares. His jaw clenched. "Told you the score already."

The younger teen's brows raised. "Dal, I gave you the book to read five months ago, and I'm gonna need you to let me know whether it's okay or not if I use your name in the published edition." He lit his own cigarette, inhaling deeply. He wasn't really annoyed with Dallas so much as he was upset with him, and it was only because he just simply wished that he would finish the book. He had thought long and hard about the initial publication, how different things would be if Dally didn't give his consent for his name to be used . . . But Ponyboy had decided that, even if Dally didn't let him, he would go back and change his name to something fictional. It wouldn't matter that way. There had been a point, back in the Summer, when he had actually reconsidered even going through with it at all, but speaking to Ella Mitchell had provided him with the insight that offered him the courage to go through with it, and that was the fact that there were others who needed to hear his story. He knew that now. And golly, but it wasn't just his story, either. A sigh fell from his lips as he glanced at his friend. "Look, Dally, you don't have to agree to let me use your name," he continued coolly. "I can change yours to something else if you're not okay with your own."

Dallas figured Ponyboy was feeling awfully brazen that day to be talking to him like that. But he found that he wasn't all that angry, not then at least. No. Honestly, Dallas was split in his own decision. He hadn't bothered to touch the book since he'd learned that Ponyboy had killed him off, and for what? To offer some kind of sympathy to guys like them? To draw the parallel of the circle of light or some weird shit? Hell, he didn't know, and he wasn't sure that he really wanted to. There had been so many things running through the hood's head, so many emotions that he felt like he was about to explode. He had wanted to die that night, didn't have the desire to live anymore. He was sick and tired of running, tired of caring, sick of . . . everything. Reading his own fictional death in the kid's book made him question too many things, wonder too many scenarios and possibilities . . . and thinking too much was something that Dallas Winston didn't like doing.

Fuckin' Ponyboy. Stupid kid.

Crushing the end of his cancer stick, he looked at the younger teen, an exasperated expression on his hardened face. "Do what you gotta do, kid," he responded with. "I don't care." The words were spoken with such casualty that Ponyboy merely stared. He was surprised that Dally hadn't come at him ready to beat his head in or something. But Dally continued after a second, a nervousness settling in Ponyboy's gut at how calm he was being. "Just don't . . . I don't wanna know nothin'."

There was a brief pause as Dallas turned to head back inside the house, but Ponyboy's voice caused him to stop, his body stiffening at the words that he'd said. Usually, Dallas wasn't one to get too heated over something so mediocre and ridiculous, especially when it came to Ponyboy, but something inside of him clenched—maybe it was his iced over heart after all—and he froze just by the door. He wasn't sure what to say or do, or even what to think, but glory hallelujah did he just want to beat it out of there before he could actually whack the kid.

"You know something, Dally," he'd began, eerily relaxed, "you're never going to get any closure if you keep holding onto the anger." When he didn't get any type of response, he merely continued. "None of us wish that you had died that night, either, and that ain't why I wrote it that way." His form was still at ease, but his shoulders dropped. "I can't tell you what to do, Dallas, but I wish, or hope, that you finish the book one day . . . even if it's not this year or the next, or even the one after that." His voice dropped an octave as he lowered it, eyes focused. "And it's not for my benefit, either." Flicking his ashes, an almost forlorn look took over his features, and for the first time, Dallas could really see just how much the kid had grown up. Hell, he didn't look no different, but the expression in his eyes had hinted at how much maturity was lurking there—he'd experienced far too much for one so young. Still, his voice carried on, a somber sound indeed. "I used to think that I only wrote the book because I had nothing else to tell my English teacher last year, but that ain't it, and it took me a while to really figure it all out, because I reckon I didn't really know myself. It ain't just guys like us here . . . it's _people_ like us out there and everywhere. Some things don't get told at all, Dal . . . but each of us"—His nostrils wrinkled a bit—"including Bob Sheldon has got a chance to share their story and make others understand." His voice had become earnest. "And if they do understand, maybe others will start to listen . . . because then it won't be too late for them."

The older teen was breathing a little heavy, his reflection staring back at him through the window as he stood just by the door. His hands were held in fists at his sides, his jaw turning white from how much his teeth were pressing together, grinding against one another. He swallowed the building saliva in his throat, shoving his own thoughts aside. He could see Johnny Cade in his mind, remember his screams like it was yesterday . . . and he could remember going down beneath the streetlight as his body was jerked around from the impact of the bullets . . . His heart was beating hardly against his rib cage, eyes icy and bitter, but before he could think to do anything irrational, he forced himself to leave, Ponyboy's words echoing in his head like a broken record.

* * *

Ella wasn't sure how she knew when Dallas was near her, but it was like her entire body would perk up, and her heart would accelerate a little quicker whenever she became aware of his presence. She was already standing by the time he entered the room, his eyes falling to her own, before he stole a quick glance at her mother. Frances had barely moved or communicated all afternoon, instead the sound of nurses and visitors out in the hall being Ella's only company—beside Evie—throughout the day, so she was glad when Dallas finally arrived, a small, barely noticeable smile ghosting her lips. She looked as tired as she felt, her eyes dull and not as bright as usual. Dallas picked up on it immediately, but he chose not to acknowledge it vocally. What he didn't know was that Ella's mind was filled to the brim with various thoughts, and they weren't the good kind. There was a feeling lurking in the pit of her stomach, one that she didn't like but didn't know how to explain. It made her feel sick, like she was suffocating and couldn't call out for help.

"Here," Dallas said lowly, his voice somewhat gruff as he broke the girl's thoughts. "Swiped somethin' for you." It was only a blueberry muffin, but he figured Ella hadn't eaten—something she usually refused to do when she was upset or worried. She placed it on the table beside the chair she'd been previously occupying, her eyes downcast. "Evie said you might be hungry." He licked his lips, looking down his nose at her as he wondered why she was so quiet. "Hey, you gon' eat that or what?"

Ella nodded slowly. "In a little," she replied. "I'm just not feeling all that hungry right now." A long and deep sigh fell from her lips as she sat back down, hand running through her thick locks. "You saw Evie?"

"Only for a minute," came the response. "She's leaving soon. Might stop in or somethin' . . ."

"Oh."

Dallas wished that he had a cigarette right then, but he'd smoked his last one on the way to visit Ella, something he was regretting he'd done. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with her and all that jazz, but he didn't dig seeing her like this, like she was then. He was used to her being fiery and sassy, but now she was distant and somber, traits that didn't fit her at all. Hell, he wouldn't ever relay that to her, though, but he almost missed her witty remarks and sarcastic tongue. He understood her dilemma, knew why she was upset, but he couldn't bring himself to grasp it fully. Dallas had always been good at shutting off his emotions and remaining aloof, and he certainly wasn't any good at comforting anyone, so being with Ella in this predicament was leaving him feeling antsy and restless. Glory, he was real thankful for the rumble that night—he could finally blow off some steam. Plus, he was going to pummel Dylan Jones, so that was a prodigious bonus for him.

The teen placed his hands in his jacket pockets, moving so that he was standing beside the chair Ella was seated in. "So . . . how is she?" he asked, nodding toward Mrs. Mitchell. "Good? Bad? What's the deal?" He tried to keep his tone level, but it had come out more harder than he'd meant it to. What he really meant to ask was if there were any hopeful updates for the woman. "Ella," he called when she didn't respond right away.

She leaned forward in the seat as he squatted down in front of her, his arms sliding around her legs as his fingers lightly rubbed at her thighs. Despite the act, his eyes still looked cold and unfeeling, his expression slightly rigid. Wisps of white-blond hair fell over his forehead, pale brows practically disappearing behind them. Ella almost chuckled, figuring that he ought to get a haircut, but she had come to learn just how much Dallas hated seeing a barber, and how much he despised people touching his hair in general. He liked it long, with no hair oil or grease in it, and he hardly ever bothered to do anything with it—and there had been times when Ella would rake her fingers through it and attempt to detangle it when he'd let her, which was usually after they'd been intimate.

Her elbows rested on her knees as she stared at the floor. "She seems fine . . . I suppose." Her heart sank at her own words. "I just don't feel right."

"About what?"

A shrug. "I don't know," she replied exasperatedly. And then her shoulders deflated completely. "I just wish you . . . could stay with me tonight." Her voice had gotten lower as she spoke the last few words, an almost hopeful sound in it, even though it was pointless to even consider the idea. Dallas wouldn't stay with her, because he was too concerned about fighting in that stupid rumble. Of course Ella was hacked off about the whole thing, including Chris Marmo and his two cronies nearly jumping her the other night after her shift at the laundromat, but at this particular moment, she just didn't care, or she didn't care to care. Before Dallas could begin to protest, Ella continued first. "I wasn't asking you to, I just wish that you could."

Dallas gave her left thigh a quick pat before he stood up straight. "I'll stop by after the rumble." His lips pursed for a moment. "Unless you want me to swing by your place."

"It doesn't matter," she said lamely. Hell, she didn't even know when the rumble would end, or if she really wanted to go to her house later . . . or what. What she did know, however, is that she felt very off, her stomach twisted up in knots and her head feeling rather light. "If it's real late, I'll probably just head home or something."

Glory, but she remembered the other night when Dallas had stayed. She remembered the way she had kissed him, how desperate she had been to forget everything. And forget she had. She had let him take her right there on the bathroom counter, her nails digging into his skin as she latched onto him and begged him for more, to go harder. The sound of his breathless grunts and husky voice in her ear surrounded by her own moans of innate pleasure had been enough to drown out her thoughts for the time being . . . before they had moved to her bedroom where he'd ravished her animalistically. It was a whole new experience for them—for her—and for a while, guilt had welled up in her chest, making her question if she was merely using her boyfriend as a means to cloud out reality. But she also loved Dallas, she was certain of that. She knew that he cared for her, at least to some degree, even though his way of expressing that was coldly and harshly.

Dallas was quiet for moment, before he nodded to the muffin he'd gotten her. "Eat that, would ya?"

The corners of her mouth twisted up. "Sure."

She followed him to the door a few minutes later, a feeling of dread lingering in her mind. But Dallas turned back, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead, his lips dwelling against her skin for an extra second. Ella's eyes closed for that second, though, her hand reaching out to brush against his own instinctively.

"I'll see ya later, yeah?"

She watched him go, a terrible feeling creeping up her spine.

* * *

Soda wasn't as pumped as he usually would be for a rumble. He was excited, sure, but he didn't feel the enthusiasm he'd once felt for fighting. Golly, but a year ago he had admitted to his own kid brother that he liked fighting because it was like a contest, and Soda had always been rather competitive. But this particular evening, he found that he didn't really care all that much. Perhaps it was because the last rumble he had participated in had been the same night they had lost one member of their makeshift gang, and when another had nearly been killed right before his eyes. He would never be able to remove the memory of Dallas Winston being shot down in a blaze of bullets out of his mind. Something in him had changed that night, he was sure, and recalling his little brother collapsing at his and Darry's feet, the week he had spent in bed . . . none of it brought back any pleasant memories for him. But other than that, he didn't like the concerned look Mary had been giving him, either. When he'd told her about the rumble that night, she hadn't scolded him or told him that he shouldn't fight in it, she had merely told him to be careful . . . but the expression in her eyes was something that had been eating away at him all afternoon—he didn't like seeing Mary upset.

He checked the mail on his way inside, rolling his eyes at the fact that neither Darry or Ponyboy had gotten it. Okay, Darry he could understand . . . sometimes his older brother liked to take afternoon naps, especially when he had the weekend off. Soda was glad that he was catching up on sleep, unsure if he had ever slept a whole night through after the death of their parents. He flipped through the envelopes, yawning as he did, his heart nearly beating straight through his rib cage at the very last one. It was addressed to him, and as he read the return label, his brown eyes widened immensely.

It couldn't be, could it? But he knew, and his hands nearly shook as he tore the envelope open, eyes scanning the words that were punched onto the paper. He wanted to tell himself that this wasn't real, that it couldn't be happening, but it was, and there was nothing that he could do about it. The reality of the situation only began to set in when he'd reread the words, his body internally becoming cold.

 _You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States of America, and to report at . . ._

He blinked once . . . twice. There was also an order to report for a physical examination, and it took the teen a moment to even out his breathing. He wasn't going to tell either Darry or Ponyboy about his draft, not yet at least, for he didn't have the heart to tell them that his number had been picked. Hell, he knew what happened to young men his age that went to fight in the war—either they came back but weren't the same, or they never made it back at all. Soda didn't want to think about which one was going to happen to him. He'd be lying if he said the thought of hightailing it to Mexico or Canada didn't cross his mind for a brief second, but he knew he wouldn't do it. No, there was no way out of this, and Soda figured that he was going to face it like a man . . . like the man his father raised him to be.

Glancing down at the letter once more, he read the date. One month—January 12, 1967—he would be reporting for his physical examination and induction. What was he going to say to his brothers? Or to Mary? Or to Steve? His heart seemed to sink a little as he considered his future, the future he had so vividly pictured sharing with Mary, the future that was beginning to turn bleak now. But he couldn't think like that, he couldn't. He had to be strong for himself, his brothers, his girl, and his friends. He had to believe that he would come back. For now, though, he wasn't going to let on about anything . . . there was a rumble to worry about that night . . . something that seemed so mediocre and so ridiculous to even stress over now.

* * *

Ella remained still, her heart erratic in her chest. She could feel how hard it was pounding, her nerves clinging to the surface as she watched the nurses shift around her mother desperately trying to find a pulse. It had all happened so suddenly that Ella could hardly recall the events leading up to this point, her mind rushed and her thoughts all jumbled up. Frances and she had been talking, but Frances had been so weak, having spent the majority of the day sleeping. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Ella knew that this moment would happen, that it was oncoming and unavoidable—she had known that since Dr. Andrews divulged that there was nothing left to do—but she hadn't expected it to be this soon, not now, not while . . . Ella didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think about anything, but she couldn't stop the thoughts plaguing her mind, either. Her mother had known that her time was short, that had become more apparent to the teen now. They had spoken for only a short while, Frances telling Ella things she had never spoke of before, like her past, Dwayne Mitchell, and how she had spoke to Dallas a few days back, apologizing to her daughter for how she never cared to listen to her. She had encouraged Ella to go to Berkeley, to live her life to the fullest . . . but most importantly, Frances had told her that she was proud of her, so very proud of the woman she had become.

But to Ella, she felt nothing but lost and confused and downright numb.

She had already known before one of the nurses shook her head, her eyes filled with sorrow as she turned to face the woman's only child. Ella hardly felt the tears prickling her own eyes, her unfocused gaze fixed on her mother's still form. She could only stare. She was unable to think straight or move, instead staying put in the spot she was standing in, her body in shock. It was all too quick, all too surreal, and the girl felt nothing short of disbelief. She could still hear her mother's soft and weak voice telling her how much she loved her only a few minutes ago . . . How was it possible?

Perhaps it was all a nightmare. Maybe she would wake up soon and realize that it was nothing but a bad dream, that none of it was real, that she and her mother were both okay.

* * *

They had wanted her to leave the room, but Ella refused. She wanted to be there until the very end, to see things through. So she waited and watched as they covered her mother's face, time seeming to move slowly as she stayed seated in the corner. Her throat was tight, her eyes watery, but she couldn't bring herself to cry or react in any way. It was as if she had completely shut down. She wished more than anything that she wasn't alone, that maybe Dallas could have been there with her. She thought about him, figuring that he was probably fighting in the rumble against Dylan Jones and his gang, and whoever else—Ella couldn't be bothered to care. But still, she yearned for him to be there with her, a silent but desperate plea playing at the forefront of her thoughts. But the reality was too certain to be ignored, and Ella knew that she was, in fact, all alone.

She retrieved her mother's belongings, filled out all of the forms and papers at the front desk, ignored the sympathetic expressions and looks of pity that were sent her way, and did what she had to do before leaving. It was late, the sky dark overhead, the air chilly. Ella decided that she would just head home, even though she inwardly dreaded going there. Maybe she would call Evie . . .

Her only company on the way to her house had been the glow of the streetlights passing her by in a blur.

* * *

Dylan Jones had overestimated his brother's former gang. Between Dallas and the boys, the Shepard gang, and a few of the Brumly Boys who had shown up, what was left of the Kings and their five paid off members of the Tigers went down easily. Dallas and Dylan had initiated the fight, and then it was an all out brawl, guys getting punched left and right. Things had been going quite smoothly, too, and Dally figured that it wouldn't take long before the leftover Kings decided to split. He took Dylan down, the prick not much of a fighter to begin with. Hell, but Dallas wondered how in the hell the kid had ever survived jail time—he was nothing like his big brother, and this particular night had done nothing but prove that fact to everyone who was there to witness it. The Tigers had beat it out of there, once they realized they didn't stand a chance, but things hadn't died down there.

It was supposed to be a skin on skin rumble, but one of the Kings, real messed up lookin' guy, pulled a blade out and got one good swipe across Ponyboy's forearm. The kid, already taking a beating from a real brute fellow, went down like a sack of potatoes. Now, Dallas would give credit where it was due; Ponyboy Curtis was a good fighter, he was, but taking on two guys that were huskier and bigger than him all around by himself wasn't the smartest thing to do. Then again, Ponyboy Curtis also never really used his head for common sense to begin with. Dallas had seen the whole thing, but Darry had come running over and went after the guy, Dally following suit. By the time he'd gotten to them, though, Ponyboy had been knocked out cold, his body dead weight as Dally tried to lift him. There was a trail of blood soaking through his jacket where he was knifed, and the blond's teeth pressed together hardly as he took in his lethargic form. It was then that he heard the howls of excitement coming from their side, the Kings leaving with their tails between their legs. Darry was squatting beside him, though, his features twisted into a panicked expression as he desperately tried to wake his kid brother.

"C'mon, Pony," Darry said, tapping his face. It was all but a minute or so before the kid's eyes opened, and boy howdy, but Dally would be lying if he said didn't look bad. Darry shot him a look, one that wasn't exactly pleasant, but the hood blew it off. Darry wasn't going to say it, not then at least, but he was silently blaming Dally for this. But Dally didn't care none, or that's what he told himself, because Ponyboy was fifteen . . . he should've been able to take care of himself in a rumble, should have been able to handle himself, should have . . . should have— ". . . taking him home," Darry was saying, his voice cold as Dallas was pulled from his thoughts. He nodded toward Soda. "He's got a pretty good bump on his head, but he's coherent."

Ponyboy was mumbling. ". . . not his fault." A shaky breath. "He . . . doesn't . . . realize."

Soda's brows were laced together, worry etched about his face. "It's okay, Ponyboy," he replied in an attempt to reassure his brothers and himself, one hand reaching up to brush the kid's hair out of his face. "Darry's taking you home, you hear? We're going home . . ."

"Glory," Two-Bit mumbled, moving to stand beside Dallas. "That was a nasty hit he took alright." He shook his head, lighting a cigarette. "I would've taken that scumbag myself, but I was clear across the lot." Inhale. "'Sides, I saw Darry dart over to him anyway, and then you." He paused for a moment, brushing his fingers over his nose, which was pissing blood everywhere. "Man, Bee's gonna have a field day with this," he drawled, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

Dallas scowled, watching Darry carry Ponyboy out of the lot, Sodapop hot on his heels with Steve a few steps behind. He looked around, realizing that most of the guys were gone, save for Tim Shepard and a few of his men. He nodded once to Dallas when the two caught eyes, and Dallas nodded back, a quick expression of gratitude for his assistance in the rumble.

"You headin' back to the Curtis's?" Two-Bit inquired suddenly, flicking his ashes. "I might crash on their couch tonight, if I'm feelin' too lazy to head home." He chuckled once.

The white-haired teen shrugged. "Yeah . . . for a minute or so . . . see how the kid is."

Soda was sitting on the steps when Dallas and Two-Bit arrived, his chin resting in his hands, a tired expression blanketing his face. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow, taking in their buddy's miserable face, wondering if Ponyboy had a concussion or something. Inside, the phone rang, and Steve's voice drifted out the door as he answered it. Dallas barely registered him saying Evie's name in stark surprise, but figured it was nothing more than her checking in. Evie was like that, though. Whenever Steve was in some kind of fight or something, or participated in a rumble, she called the Curtis house to check in on him, because she knew that he would be there. The blond shook his head at the thought as Soda bummed a cigarette from Two-Bit, his voice low and practically inaudible as he said Ponyboy did, in fact, have a concussion, and that Darry was looking after him, and cleaning his wounds.

The screen door creaked as Steve stepped outside, his eyes downcast, countenance deadpan. "That was Evie," he said, voice distant. "Ella's mother passed away."

* * *

The Mitchell house was dark, and Dallas wondered if Ella was awake or not. There was a part of him, a part that had been long buried and concealed, that had come crawling up to the surface—guilt. He had tried to ignore it, to shove it away and forget about it, but every time he thought about Ella, every time her fucking face crossed his mind, he couldn't help but think of her in that hospital with her mother, the emotional toll it must have taken on her. She had wanted him to stay, indirectly asked him to, but he hadn't. It wasn't so much that he cared about that particular thing, but just thinking about Ella . . . First her father—not that Dallas even gave the man a second thought—but now her mother. He knew she had never been overly close with the woman, their relationship somewhat estranged emotionally, but still . . . He'd had a chance to speak with Frances Mitchell for a while only a few days ago, and even though she didn't really care for him, she had spoken to him, and she didn't look down at him or talk down to him while she did. She had been decent and fair and even kind. The fact that she was dead wasn't settling in all that well, and Dallas could hardly imagine how Ella was feeling.

He made his way to the side of the house, tapping once . . . twice on her window before just deciding to let himself in. Ella kept the window unlocked intentionally for these occasions . . . or rather because she always looked forward to him spending the nights with her. Pushing the window up, the teen pulled himself over the ledge, swinging his legs around and stepping down into Ella's bedroom. The first thing he noticed was that the house was oddly cold. The second thing he noticed was that Ella was laying on top of her bed, still in the clothes she had worn that day. And the third thing he noticed was that the air in her room was . . . still. He maneuvered around her bed, cocking an eyebrow at the cigarette butts piled up in the ashtray, and gently sat down beside her. She was laying on her right side facing the wall, her body rising and falling with each breath she took.

Dallas rested his arm over her so that she was between it and his side, his hand flat on the mattress. He shook her a little with the other, fingers curling around her shoulder as her eyes opened ever so slowly, the washed out expression in them seemingly permanent. She turned her head a little, her eyes meeting his as she merely stared at him. She didn't look surprised to see him there, but she didn't look relieved, either. If anything, Ella appeared numb, as if every feeling, every emotion, was absent from her body, her face stony and apathetic, completely out of sorts for her usual personality.

"Hey, dollface," he half-whispered, voice gruff but almost gentle, or as gentle as a guy like Dallas could make his voice.

Ella blinked. "Evie told you." It wasn't exactly a question, but the tone she'd used made it sound as if she'd guessed her assumption. A sigh. "I just . . ." She paused, brows pressing together. "I don't want to talk about it, Dally."

He wouldn't tell her, but Dallas was relieved to hear that. He had never done well dealing with emotions or any of that jazz. Hell, he could hardly deal with his own, and whenever he felt like he was getting too much into his own head, he bailed as quickly as he could and found something to either numb the pain, or make him forget entirely. He just wasn't good with that shit, so Ella admitting that she didn't want to talk about her mother made the situation feel less . . . awkward.

Licking his lips, Dallas changed the conversation. "We won tonight," he said, hardly sounding proud, but rather, more drab. "Beat Jones and his cronies right off our turf." His fingers tightened around her shoulder for only a second until he pulled away, patting his pockets for his cigarettes. (He'd bummed a pack from Steve earlier.) "Reckon we won't be havin' no more trouble with the Kings." He lit up, then, as Ella sat up, only to lean back against her headboard. Dallas debated on telling her about Ponyboy, but ultimately decided that he'd better not—it wasn't a good time. He turned to the side to face her, taking a few more drags of his cigarette in silence.

Ella's eyes were closed, but she could feel Dallas watching her. "I'm fine," she uttered out, a crease forming on her forehead. "Just tired."

"You gon' ask me to stay tonight?"

She looked at him, taking in his expression and digesting his words. He was leaving the choice up to her—if she asked him to stay, he would. If she asked him to leave, he would. Usually, Dallas did as he pleased, did as he wanted. There were times when he would humor her, if she asked him to stay the night at her place, he would, but he was always gone in the morning. Her gaze remained on his, though, dark blue against pale blue, like ice freezing a body of water beneath a night sky. A thousand thoughts passed through the girl's mind, a thousand scenarios playing out repetitively. A sinking feeling filled her gut as she considered this moment, herself, and her future. She had known for a long time now that it would come to this . . . that nothing lasted forever.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes, but she was internally grateful for the company.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

He stubbed his cigarette out, adding it the pile in the ashtray and shifted so that he was beside her, his arm curling around her frame as her back pressed against his chest. He ignored the pain in his cheek—where he'd gotten socked good—as he rested his face on the pillow, his jaw clenching a little. Ella's fingers enclosed around his as her head moved beneath his chin, and then her breathing evened out as she fell into a restless sleep, her breaths fanning his hand where she held it almost in front of her face.

Dallas hardly slept that night.

 _What did you do to my eyes?  
_

 _What did you sing to that lonely child?  
_

 _Promised it all but you lied  
_

 _You better slow down baby soon  
_

 _It's all or nothing to you  
_

* * *

 **We're only a few chapters shy of the end!**

 **A tremendous _Thank You_ for all of the wonderful feedback on this story. Y'all are amazing! :3**


	37. Gonna Rain, Gonna Pour

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Catie Curtis owns "100 Miles."**

* * *

 _My mind is racing and I'm sorry if it hurts_

 _I've never been somewhere that I could not reverse_

 _If I don't wonder, if I don't take my time_

 _Am I 100 miles ahead, or 100 miles behind?_

 **December 22, 1966**

Even though Jan was talking to her, Ella wasn't really paying her much attention. She didn't mean to be rude, really she didn't, but the girl had so much on her mind, so many overactive thoughts and zero physical energy to do anything. It had been twelve days since her mother had passed, and Ella still couldn't bring herself to believe it. On top of that, she had learned that Ponyboy had been wounded in the rumble—though he was okay now—and she found out that Evie had been pregnant, only to end up suffering a miscarriage, which had left her sullen and low-spirited. Everything had been surreal to Ella, as if she were lost in a daze of disbelief, somewhere safe from the truth of reality. Frances's funeral had only been six days prior to this moment, one day after Ella's nineteenth birthday. Truth be told, Ella appeared collected and calm on the outside, but on the inside, she was screaming. She had hardly shed any tears, though, despite the internal suffering she was enduring. Instead, she thrust herself into work again, deciding that she couldn't sit around and mope day after day. Surprisingly, Ginger had been rather sympathetic toward Ella's situation, and had eased up on her quite a bit. However, her shifts had been fluctuating since she had come back Monday morning, and no longer was she working eight hours. Instead, she had been cut down to either four or six, but oddly enough, she had been . . . okay with that, for she was considering other options for her future.

With a breathy sigh, Ella pushed her eggs around on her plate. Jan had been kind enough to invite her out to brunch that morning, to which Ella had obliged. She wasn't really into it, though, not really. In all honesty, Ella wasn't finding much solace in anything as of late. Her friends had been a tremendous and most welcomed comfort, and Dallas . . . surprisingly, had been keeping a closer eye on her. What Ella did notice was the strain on their relationship, the constant pull and distance that was seeming to come between them. But was it really a bad thing?

"Have you thought about what you're going to do?"

Ella's gaze shifted onto Jan, who sipped her coffee. "I'm not sure yet," she admitted dully. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about Berkeley, but . . . I don't even know if it's the right time, Jan." She rested her arms on the table, body sagging forward. "I just have a lot on my mind right now."

"You've been through a lot," came the response. Despite not seeing each other that much in the past months, Jan had always been there for her former co-worker and friend. Ella had always been appreciative of Jan, for she was supportive and wise and kind, and she always gave out good advice, something the teen was in desperate need of. "Is there a way that you could possibly postpone this semester or something?" she asked next. A shrug. "Maybe you could start next Fall, considering the circumstances at the very least."

The girl's eyes lowered as she looked at the untouched food on her plate. "I don't know. I'm not even sure what would happen if I did decide to leave." She pursed her lips. "I can't just . . . walk away from the house, and I can't just leave my mother's possessions behind, either. That wouldn't be right." A firm expression suddenly crossed her features for a moment, a determined look in her eyes. "Jan, if I decide to leave . . ."

The sentence was left open, but the older woman understood completely. It was something Ella had thought of in the past, and had been considering the past few days. She wasn't absolutely certain that she would leave, that she would just take off without ever looking back, but the concept on its own was intriguing . . . and not one hundred percent on the back burner. Hell, Ella could remember when her mother, Evie, and even Ponyboy had encouraged her to do things for herself, to live her own life the way she wanted to, without the interference or influence of anyone else. But it had all seemed like an idea to her then, like an idea she could have potentially, not realistically. Berkeley was in New York, and New York was on the east coast, quite a distance from Tulsa. Ella had never been out of Tulsa in all her nineteen years, and the possibility that she could be doing so within the next week or so was crazy to her . . . flabbergasting, even.

"Ella," Jan said, sounding as earnest as she looked, "you have all the time in the world right now. You don't have to do anything that you don't wish to, but the choice is up to you."

A nod. "I know, I just wish I knew what the right decision was."

And Jan chuckled at that. "Oh, hunny, there is no right decision here."

"I'd like to go, but—"

"You don't know if now is the right time for you, and that's completely understandable, Ella." Jan was looking at her knowingly. "Can I ask you something, Ella?" At the girl's nod of affirmation, Jan merely continued. "Besides what . . . happened, what else is holding you back from pursuing your dreams?"

The question caused the teen to inwardly freeze. The first thought that would have went through her mind was Dally, but he wasn't holding her back from anything. Truthfully, Dallas had encouraged her to leave, to get the hell out of Tulsa before it was too late for her. He didn't have any plans of sticking around much longer, and well . . . everybody else had plans of their own, plans that they wanted to pursue, and dreams they wanted to make come true. For Ella, Berkeley was her only option to make something of herself, to do something with her life other than working at a laundromat and dwelling on the possibilities of what her life could be. In the end, Ella realized that she was the only one holding herself back, that instead of really doing anything for herself, she was doing the opposite. Oh sure, she could have stayed in Tulsa, worked odd jobs, paid off the house, and whatever else, but really, that wasn't the life that Ella wanted for herself. If this conversation between her and Jan was taking place several months earlier, Ella would have answered that her mother's health was preventing her from leaving, especially because she would never be able to forgive herself if something happened and she wasn't there. But now . . . now her mother was gone, and even though it was a morbid thought and quite possibly an awful one, her mother's death had set her free.

Ella licked her lips, fingers tapping the table lightly. "I think . . . I know what I'm going to do. I'm just going to need some help first, and maybe some time."

A small smile graced the woman's lips. "Well, let me know what I can do, if you need me."

* * *

Dallas fed Artemis a carrot, gently stroking the space between her ears. Beside them, in the stall next door, Marigold made a sound like a grunt, her head tipping over the front gate as she tried to nip at the blond's jacket. He was still a bit annoyed that he had to travel clear out of his way to see the horses and carry on with training Artemis, but on this particular day, he found that being away from town was actually somewhat nice. There wasn't a soul around, save for him, and he figured that it was a safe place to read some more of Ponyboy's book, not that the idea of doing so was enthralling. In fact, it was quite the opposite for the towheaded teen, who didn't so much as want to look at the blasted thing. It had been weeks since he'd read any of it, months since he'd told the kid that he would get around to it, and now . . . well, he supposed it was time to get the damn thing out of the way. Really, he didn't see why it was so important, didn't understand the point of it, but Ponyboy's words from a week ago had been doing nothing but playing in his mind, encouraging him to finish the book.

He recalled speaking to Ella's mother that one Thursday afternoon, two days before she had passed; it was the first and final time he had ever really spoken to her—a conversation that he wasn't about to forget any time soon. She had inquired about the book as well, not that she had known about him holding the kid up on his publication or anything, but she had merely asked about it, saying that Ella had mentioned it some time ago. Dallas had simply told her that he hadn't gotten around to reading it, but he hadn't told her the reason why. A small smile had brushed her lips, a faraway expression on her ashen face. She had told him that he ought to take some time and do so, that maybe he would learn a thing or two. He hadn't bothered to ask, but he had wondered if Ella told her what the book was about, not that he really gave a shit. Still . . . Dallas was leery about the whole thing, and he was still pissed that Ponyboy had decided to kill him off like that, going on that it wasn't meant to be looked at like that or whatever-the-fuck-else. Dallas didn't care, didn't care in the least. What had gotten to him, however, was how casually Ponyboy had suggested changing his name in the book. He thought that Dallas had a problem with his name being used, but that wasn't the issue . . . far from.

Really, Dallas didn't know why he was so irked. Perhaps it was because he felt that it would bring too much attention to guys like them? No, that couldn't be it. Shit, wasn't that the entire purpose of the fucking story being published in the first place? Dally wanted to whack his head against something, punch something, anything! Reading had never been his favorite subject, and he despised getting stuck in his own mind and thoughts more than that. The fucking book had been nothing more than a damn nightmare since the day Ponyboy had given it to him to read. Hell, just the thought of nightmares did nothing short of remind him of Johnny Cade, and with a sneer, the hood pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck," he mumbled under his breath, exhaling hardly. He patted Marigold as he headed toward the back of the barn, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Lady's ears perked a little as he stopped in front of her stall to feed her a treat. She was an old horse, but she still had a lot of fire in her. "Here, girl," he said, feeding her an apple. (She wasn't a carrot fan.)

A moment later saw Dallas Winston perched on a few bales of hay up in the loft, his back pressing against the side wall so he could see the entrance of the barn. It was silly to consider that he almost felt secure where he was, in a place where nobody could catch him reading a book. It was silent, though, the air cool but comfortable where he was, and even though he wished that he could light a cigarette, he found that he was oddly . . . relaxed. Dallas pulled the book out of his jacket pocket, eyeing the cover with an expression of disinterest. He was the last person to hear of it or read it out of every person whose name was mentioned in it. Only few had read it, though, Tim and Curly Shepard both choosing not to. Cherry what's-her-name and her friend's boyfriend—whatever the hell his name was—had only skimmed through it, according to Soda Curtis, and the others had mostly just consented to their names being used because they thought it was tuff that they were included in the damn story to begin with. Ella had been the first to actually read it, though, and Dallas wondered about her, wondered how she felt about it. Did he really care, though?

Speaking of Ella, Dallas had been having a lot of thoughts concerning her as of late. Since her mother had passed, the two of them had grown somewhat distant with each other. Dallas knew she had been thinking about attending Berkeley, and even he had told her to go, to get the hell out of town, but now, now things seemed . . . different. Any other time he would have told her to scram, to do something with herself, that he didn't care any other way, but— Oh, blast it, he thought, shaking his head as his teeth pressed together . . . he still felt the same as he originally had in the beginning. It was better to set her free before she got too attached. He had considered Ella Mitchell plenty of times before, thought about him and her together, and still, to this point, he really didn't know what to make of her. She was on that very small—nearly non-existent—list of people that he gave a shit about, but . . . hell, they had been together for what, four fucking months, and he'd done more than just get into her pants. The longest broad he'd been with was Sylvia, but not even they had lasted a full four months, not solid anyway.

Ella was . . . different, though . . . whatever the fuck that meant.

Dallas rid himself of those particular thoughts and flipped the book open. His eyes scanned the words as he remembered where he had left off several weeks earlier—somewhere near the end of chapter ten or something—and his jaw clenched as he began to read the scene following the conclusion of his fictional death. Glory, but the thought still hacked him off, but not enough to discourage him from reading further on.

 _When I woke up it was light. It was awfully quiet. Too quiet. I mean, our house isn't just naturally quiet . . ._

* * *

Steve had been Soda's best buddy since grade school, knew him about as much as he knew himself. He considered Soda his brother, and since they had been practically glued to the hip for the past eleven or so years, one might even assume that they were really related. Plainly put, Steve and Soda both knew each other quite well, and right then, Steve knew that something was going on with his friend. He was half-tempted to blame Soda's moody disposition on Mary, assuming that something had happened between them again. Only Soda wasn't moody in the love sick type of way. This was different, and Steve wasn't so sure that he had ever seen the golden-haired teen so out of sorts, well, except for when his parents were killed, as well as during that entire ordeal with Ponyboy and Johnny over a year ago, but still, those were different. Soda had become increasingly quiet, his brown eyes no longer lively, and whenever Steve tried to talk to him, his answers were short and dull.

He waited until his lunch break to confront him, though, determined to find out what was going on. It seemed that things all around had gone downhill starting three weeks ago. Evie had been solemn and closed off after the miscarriage, and truth be told, Steve wasn't sure what to do. He had been there for her through it all, doing his best to ignore the looks of disapproval from both of her parents. Evie had cried herself to sleep, silent tears that rained down her cheeks and dripped onto his fingers as he tried to brush them away. Neither one of them had expected it, neither one of them had been prepared for it, and neither one of them knew how to deal with the aftermath. Strangely enough, Steve was certain that he and Evie were even closer than they were before—if that was even possible.

He found Soda sitting outside, a cigarette held loosely between his index and middle fingers, a look of great distress plastering his otherwise smooth face. Steve took a seat beside him, handing him a bottle of Pepsi as he lit his own cigarette. Soda remained still, the beverage gone untouched for the next several minutes, and to be quite frank, Steve had had enough. He turned a little so that he was fully facing the younger teen, a crease forming over his forehead as he fixed him with a firm look.

"What's with you, man?" he asked, and despite the question, his voice wasn't harsh at all, but reflected the concern he'd been feeling. "You ain't been yourself."

And Soda's shoulders deflated as his upper body sagged forward, his elbows pressing into his knees as he stared straight ahead. The weight of his draft letter was starting to set in, and every day that passed only drew closer to when he had to go for his exam and induction. He had been trying to spend each day carefully, taking more time to do things with his brothers and friends. He put on a facade of innate cheerfulness when he was around either Darry or Ponyboy, but he had been foolish to think that he could fool Steve. No, Steve saw through him like glass, and Soda figured that he had been mighty dumb trying to conceal his worry from him. Still, he didn't want to tell anyone about his draft, didn't want to spoil anything—though it seemed everyone was facing their own personal troubles—right before the holidays.

He sighed. "It ain't nothin', Steve."

"Bullshit," came the blunt response. "You know that ain't true." When he didn't get a reply, he tried a different tactic, something that would rile his friend enough to come forward. "Did Mary do somethin' again? What, is she throwing her wealthy lifestyle in your face now or somethin'?" And the next words out of his mouth seemed to do the trick. "Let me guess, you ain't good enough for her now."

The older teen expected the shove. "Screw you, Steve," he bit out as he jumped to his feet, nostrils flaring with aggravation. "Don't you bring Mary into this, you hear?" His tone was threatening. "She ain't done nothing wrong."

Steve could tell by the tone of his voice that perhaps even Mary didn't know that something _was_ wrong, and judging from Soda's reaction altogether, Steve knew that his earlier assumptions were correct. Soda was hiding something, and whatever it was, he couldn't be sure. Hell, Soda was usually pretty hard to anger, even though he could go from jubilant to aggressive in seconds. But Steve knew, and now he was more than determined to get to the bottom of the situation, come hell or high water.

"Alright, fine," Steve said, flicking his cigarette butt away. "What's going on?"

Soda ran his hands through his greasy locks, folding his fingers together as his hands rested against the back of his head, a clear sign that he was seriously stressed out and upset. He debated telling Steve the truth, but glory . . . What about his brothers? He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, teeth grinding together as he thought about his future . . . what would become of him, that is. The palms of his hands were moistening with sweat, his nerves on edge and threatening to surface. He needed another cigarette, and quickly. He pulled his pack out of his jacket pocket, pulling one out and lighting it in one motion, breathing in and letting the nicotine ease his trembling form. Meanwhile, Steve merely watched him, brows pulled together, a quizzical look on his face.

"Soda—"

"I got drafted," the younger teen stated, his back to his friend.

It took Steve a second or two to register his words, and then his eyes broadened, his heart beating a little quicker in his chest. He didn't want to believe what he had just heard, didn't want to believe that it was real, that Soda . . . Holy shit. Now he needed a fucking cigarette. Soda had been drafted. He would be going to fight in that blasted war. No wonder he had been the way he was. Steve didn't know what to think, but hell, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared shitless for his friend, because hell he was. He didn't want to think of the things that happened to guys over there, the things they did and saw . . . It just about made him sick, and Steve was a tough guy. But thinking about Soda leaving to go and fight in a war made him think twice about their ages. Steve used to think that eighteen was old, but now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't so sure about much anymore.

He swallowed the building saliva in his mouth. "You didn't," he began to say, only for Soda to cut him off, his voice more apathetic.

"I didn't tell anyone, Steve." A sigh. "Not Darry or Pony, and not even Mary."

A nod. "Jesus Christ," the dark-haired teen mumbled. "Hell, Soda . . . did you get . . . dates for anything or whatever?"

"Yeah," he answered. "I've only got a few weeks left until I have to go for a physical, and then I go for the induction."

Silence followed his answer, and Steve found that his hands were becoming clammy. There were many different thoughts drifting through his head at that moment, and without fully thinking things through, the older teen said the first thing that made sense to him.

"I'm gonna enlist."

Soda's eyes nearly bulged. "What?" he exclaimed, countenance perturbed. "You can't do that, Steve!" Hell, but what was his buddy thinking? Soda could feel his heart beginning to pound harder as he thought about Steve fighting in the war, his head shaking in disagreement. "No way, man," he was saying, and chucked his cigarette. "Steve, what about Evie? What about . . . the gang—"

But Steve stood up in one fluid motion, face reflecting sheer determination. "I've made my mind up, Soda, and you ain't gonna change it." He whacked his shoulder in a friendly manner. "Besides, buddy, who's gonna really have your back out there?" He tried to crack a grin, but it only came out halfway, because really, even if Steve did enlist, who knew if they would end up together? "We'll do this, Soda, we'll do this together."

Soda nodded, lips curved upward, a grim look on his face.

* * *

Ella spotted Ponyboy walking across the student parking lot, his head bowed a little as he walked along toward her car, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The side of Ella's lips twitched as she watched him, her body relaxing a little. She and Ponyboy had always been comfortable around one another, and the girl found that it was quite easy to talk and be honest with the younger teenager. She smiled at him through the passenger side window as he approached the car, and he immediately returned it, sliding into the seat beside her only a moment later. The cool breeze from the Wintry air fanned her face, and she shivered lightly as goosebumps pricked her concealed skin beneath her coat. Glory, but it was cold out, Winter finally settling in, and Ella knew that it was only going to get worse come next month, as it always did.

"Hey," she greeted her friend. "How was school?"

Ponyboy's brow quirked, a gesture which reminded Ella of Two-Bit. "It was okay, I guess," he replied with, subconsciously pulling out his pack of cigarettes. "I'm real glad that tomorrow is only a half day. I need a break from school." Ella chuckled, and he grinned. "How've you been?"

A shrug, and her laughter ceased. "Hanging in, which is the most I can do at this point. Actually, I've been doing a lot of thinking about Berkeley." Their eyes met. "I think . . . I think that I'm going to go, but I'll need to call and inform them by tomorrow."

The younger teen was silent for a moment, his unlit cigarette secured in his hand. With everything that had been going on, he had completely forgotten about Ella possibly leaving for college. Well, he hadn't completely forgotten—not quite—but it was a thought that had been placed on the back burner in his mind. It almost seemed surreal to him that she could possibly be leaving, that she wouldn't be around anymore, and it dawned on him just how different things were becoming. But he wanted to see Ella go and make something of herself, to get out of their town and seize the opportunity to do something great, like go to New York and chase whatever dreams she had. Besides, he thought it would be good for her to get away from Tulsa for a while, even if that meant leaving her friends behind. For a brief moment, Ponyboy wondered about his own future and where he was headed. Really, he didn't have the slightest clue what he wanted to do just yet, other than write, but there were plenty of options that he'd been considering as well—it all boiled down to a scholarship, though.

"Well, you ought to," he eventually said, giving her an earnest look. "I mean, you should go, Ella, see the world and all of that, you know?"

Her lips pursed. "I just don't know if I'm ready yet."

"That's probably why you should go." At the girl's look of bafflement, he explained himself. "I just mean that if you keep putting it off, or procrastinating, you most likely ain't gonna go, and . . . while things are fresh, you should go."

Ella inhaled deeply, hands resting on the steering wheel. The more she spoke about it, the more she realized that she really did want to go. She had questioned herself over and over that afternoon about what she was going to do, and she considered Jan's and Ponyboy's advice. Maybe it didn't feel like the right time to leave, but like Ponyboy said, if she didn't act now, she would most likely continue to put it off and eventually just throw her life away. Besides, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and as Dallas had even relayed to her one time—a time that seemed like a distant memory now—she would be quite stupid not to act on it. But there were still things that Ella would need to do, things that needed to be taken care of, and truthfully, she just didn't know how to feel about anything. She thought that she was being quite over-dramatic, but she was also trying to be rational, too.

She stared ahead as the parking lot started clearing out. "Ponyboy, how did you do it?" she asked, a solemn sound to her voice. "How did you . . . cope after losing your parents?"

The younger teen was really itching to smoke his cigarette. "I guess I . . . never really did, not at first anyway." Silence. "I reckon having my brothers and friends around made things . . . easier, but they were never able to . . . keep the nightmares away." Ponyboy almost felt silly admitting that to Ella, but she had read his book, and maybe—if Dally ever got back to him—it would be published, and the whole world would know about him, so he supposed it didn't matter now. "I kept myself busy with school work and track and hanging around my friends, but the pain doesn't really . . . go away." He shrugged. "I suppose you just get more accustomed to it over time."

Ella nodded. "Reckon you're right." They were both quiet for a minute or so, the lot becoming empty as the last few cars drove off. Ella wondered when she would be leaving, if she decided to go to Berkeley after all. How much time would she have left? She lifted her hand, rubbing at her head for a moment as she thought about New York and what could possibly be awaiting her out there. Well, if she decided to go, she knew what she was going to have to do, and though it wasn't exactly an easy choice to consider, it was the only one she deemed appropriate. Time was running out, though, and Ella knew that she was going to have to make a decision, and soon. She decided to switch the topic, though, figuring that both she and Ponyboy could do something else beside dwelling on things to come. "You want to head to the diner downtown?" she offered.

A grin. "Sounds good."

* * *

Ella flipped through the bills later that evening, a frown on her lips as she did. Things were beginning to pile up again, just like she had predicted earlier. She sighed as she went through the medical bills, wondering if she ought to just take Jan's and Ponyboy's advice. She did have a big decision to make, but heading to New York, especially by her lonesome, frightened her. The world was a big place, and Ella had never been out of Tulsa, had never been away from her home town. Ponyboy was right, she thought to herself—even though she wasn't ready, perhaps it was the best time to go. She could only think about Dallas, though, what would become of them. She was certain that she loved him, well, it wasn't even that she was certain of it anymore, she knew that she did. It scared her how strong her own feelings were, but there was a part of her, somewhere buried deep down below the surface, that had known that Dallas hadn't fully returned her feelings.

Shaking her head, Ella went through all of the bills, deciding to pay off what she was able to at that point and set the others aside. Hell, even with her job, she would never be able to cover everything for quite some time—not even her mother's insurance would cover it, although it would help a lot. The girl wasn't left high and dry, not completely at least. Ella had always been a rather smart girl, and she knew the laws and how things worked, and she knew what she had to do. She had been procrastinating, that was true, but it was only because there was some form of sentiment holding her back.

In the end, Ella really was on her own.

Her eyes drifted around the kitchen, a solemn expression on her face as she stared at her mother's mug, which was still in a pile of broken glass on the counter. The girl still couldn't bring herself to throw it away, couldn't bring herself to let go—not yet. Perhaps she was being foolish, or silly, or absolutely ridiculous, but she didn't care, not then. The house was quiet, too quiet, the air uncannily still, and Ella felt a shiver move up her spine as she considered the place where she had grown up, the town where she had gone to school and had gotten her first job . . . Things seemed so different now, as if all of those memories were so distant and foggy in her mind, as if she would be leaving behind a part of herself if she officially chose to leave. It seemed so surreal to her, so bizarre, but Ella was still conflicted over everything, still unsure of what to do or believe. Hell, she had been so overwhelmed as of late, too many things happening at once.

She made her way to the phone, dialing Buck's place in an attempt to get a hold of Dallas. She hadn't seen him all day, and she really needed to hear his voice right then. After a few rings, she was greeted with Buck's soused voice, and she could only envision him chewing on a toothpick. She had asked if her boyfriend was in, if she could speak to him, and the older cowboy had asked her to hold on. And glory, she waited about five minutes or so before she heard some movement, Dallas's voice seeping through the speaker a second or so later.

"Dally," Ella breathed, twirling the cord around her fingers. Her back pressed against the wall as she closed her eyes, trying to even out her breathing. "It's Ella."

"Hey, sweets," he responded with, tone measured. "What's up?"

Ella sat down at the kitchen table, elbows spread apart as she rested the receiver against her ear, her other hand rubbing gently across her forehead. "Nothing," she answered quietly. "I uh, I got in a little while ago, and I was going through some bills . . ." She licked her lips. "I just—" She paused, deciding to not tell him that she just wanted to hear him, to feel close to him. "I just wanted to check in real quick, you know . . . I missed you today."

On the other end, Dallas's brows laced together. "Yeah," he said, turning his back to the few stragglers who were seated at the bar. "How . . . How are you holdin' up, kid?"

"Hanging in," she answered, and quickly changed the topic, her stomach seeming to squeeze. "How's the horses?" she asked, trying to sound chipper and upbeat.

Dallas smirked. "Well, Artemis ain't bitchin' about bein' stuck in a stall, so that's good, and well, she's still tryin' to eat my clothes." A chuckle. "Marigold is doing okay . . ."

He trailed on as Ella listened, one hand covering her mouth as she angled the handset away from her face so that he couldn't hear her soft cries coming through. Tears poured down her cheeks as she tried to focus on his voice and what he was saying, her heart aching all the more.

 _It's gonna rain, it's gonna pour_

 _Through sickness and health_

 _Can I love more?_

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	38. Something New

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Cat Stevens owns "Wild World."**

* * *

 _Now that I've lost everything to you  
_

 _You say you want to start something new  
_

 _And it's breaking my heart you're leaving  
_

 _Baby, I'm grieving_

 **December 26, 1966**

The sun was barely kissing the horizon, the sky still dark with only a touch of light beginning to make any sort of appearance. Ella opened her eyes, her bedroom ceiling entering her view, and pulled the sheet tighter around herself as she wondered what time it was. She felt tired, and she was grateful that she didn't have to go into work that day, thank goodness. Then again, Ella had been having a lot of thoughts about her job at the laundromat, as well as her decision regarding college. She still had to talk to Dally about some things, but the two of them hardly had any time to be together as of late. Thinking about her boyfriend caused Ella to turn her head, finding the space beside herself empty. Dallas had spent the night with her after a rather fun-filled day at the Curtis's place. Well, Ella hadn't really been feeling any excitement for Christmas, but everyone being together was nice. Ponyboy had invited her, and she knew that he was mostly trying to be polite—he didn't want her to be alone. Ella appreciated the gesture, and she was glad she had a friend like Ponyboy. Dallas had picked her up around noon, and the two of them had spent the majority of the day there, before heading back to her house.

Sitting up, the girl climbed out of bed, draping a robe around her petite frame to shield her from the cool air. She squinted a little at the light blanket of snow that just covered the road outside, a smile barely touching her lips. Ella enjoyed the Winter season, even though it was too cold, but she liked to spend her evenings curled up with a mug of hot chocolate while finding peace around the Christmas décor, not that she had done any decorating that year. But still, Ponyboy and his brothers, as well as their friends, hadn't seemed to have lost the holiday spirit, and in all that excitement, Ella had found a pang of relief by relaxing for the first time in what seemed like forever.

She found Dallas seated outside on the small deck, his body perched on the rail, his back pressed into one of the beams. He looked rather content where he was, and Ella wondered if she ought to disturb him. He was leisurely smoking a cigarette, eyes half slit, and for a moment, the girl could almost see him being at peace, nothing around to disrupt him from his thoughts. Unfortunately, Ella found that her own concept was short lived, for Dallas had spotted her watching him, brows raising ever so little as he took her figure in. He had assumed that she was still sleeping, and really, he had no intentions of waking her up. He hadn't been up that long anyway, and if anything, he probably would have went back to bed for a little while before heading out to check on his horses. He figured Buck was taking care of things with his cousin or whoever, but he still wanted to check on them. Glory, he remembered the last time he was there, the day he had decided to read some more of Ponyboy's book. He had only made it halfway through chapter eleven, before he stopped, a part of him unsure if he really wanted to finish the story at all.

Ella sent him a small smile from where she stood, eyes void of any emotion. He sucked on his cancer stick, motioning her out with his free hand. She seemed to somewhat perk at the gesture, her arms instantaneously enveloping her middle as she stepped outside. She made her way over to where he was seated, teeth chattering lightly as she leaned beside him, his one arm maneuvering itself around her shoulders in an attempt to warm her up some.

"When did you get up?" she asked, her voice soft, the pitch low. Her head pressed into his chest, arms clinging tighter around her trembling frame. "I didn't even hear you."

Dallas exhaled, his fingers pressing a little into her delicate skin. "Not long ago." A shrug. "Had to take a—" He paused, knowing that she was already looking up at him with a slight frown. He made a face before rolling his eyes, wondering why he even gave shit to use what Ella deemed as "polite terms" anyway, because any other time, he wouldn't. "I had to use the bathroom." He shook his head, stubbing out the rest of the cigarette and pulling away from her as he stood up. "Jesus," he said, nose wrinkling as he glanced down at her. "You look like you're about to freeze."

"It's chilly," came the rapid response, but a small smile touched her lips. It didn't last long, though, as Ella's thoughts were drifting elsewhere. Just looking at Dallas stirred up what she was trying to put off, what she wanted to hold out on, but she knew that she couldn't. "You want some breakfast?" she asked instead, chest clamping a little.

The blond looked at her sideways for a second, noticing the pressed tone of her voice. "Sure." The two of them headed inside, Dallas following behind Ella, the warmer air a wonderful welcome. Dallas moved to sit at the table, brow quirking as Ella got to work on making pancake batter. There was something on her mind, that much he could tell, and he wondered what it was. Hell, she had been acting a bit differently—not that he could really blame her—for the last few days, but it wasn't really a swift change, but rather, a more subtle one. "What'd you wanna talk about?" he'd inquired, recalling her saying something about wanting to discuss something with him the other night.

She froze for a split second, milk carton in hand, eyes widening. She was slightly surprised that Dallas was bringing this up now, but then again, he had never been one to procrastinate. Ella wasn't ready to have this particular conversation now, but she knew that time was growing shorter and shorter, and even though there were a lot of things she wanted to go over, she didn't think now was the right time to do so. Oh, but Dallas wouldn't quit bugging her about it until she caved and started talking, so the girl figured that now was the best opportunity to bring up what she had been avoiding all along.

A sigh. "Well," she began, a strange sound in her voice, "I wanted to talk about me . . . and college."

At that, Dallas gave her an odd look. "What about it?" he questioned, more like grumbled, not really expecting _that_ to be the topic. To be honest, Dallas hardly thought about Ella and that college in New York, and truthfully, he really didn't want to discuss it. But he could remember a time when he had practically preached to her about getting the fuck out of that town, about doing something with herself that he would never be able to. Yeah, he could remember that quite clearly, even in his hungover state of mind. Glory. "You gonna go or what?"

Ella's lips pursed, and she was unsure of how to break the news to him that she had already called and officially enrolled. She would be leaving January sixth to make the drive to New York, to Berkeley, where she would start her first class in the following weeks. She had went over everything with Jan a few days back, deciding that she would take some time to (somewhat) establish herself with a job and get to know the area. She had also decided that she would be storing her mother's possessions and other belongings of her own in storage in Tulsa for the time she was away. She would have to get a job in New York, but there was no way that she could make the payments on the house in Tulsa—her mother's house—so she was putting it up. Even on her own, Ella couldn't make it, there was just no way. Even with what her mother had left her—though it was enough to get by for a while—Ella would never be able to make it in the long run.

Her shoulders slumped as she stirred the pancake batter. "I—" she started to say, but froze when the telephone rang. She wondered who in the hell was calling so early, but figured that it might be Jan. She was good for calling at odd hours, even if just to check in. "Hello?" Her face scrunched for a second, and then relaxed. "Hi, Jan . . ."

Seated at the table, Dallas stared straight ahead at the kitchen counter, wondering when Ella was ever going to clean up the pile of glass shards from that broken mug, whatever they were going to discuss forgotten in the background.

* * *

Ponyboy simply couldn't believe it, he just couldn't. His focus was no longer fixated on the letter in his hands, but elsewhere, somewhere distant. Hell, he couldn't understand for the life of himself why his brother hadn't said anything about being drafted. What was he thinking? Did he think he could hide it from him and Darry? Ponyboy felt his breathing becoming heavier, ragged, and in his own frustration over what he had just learned, he felt his eyes prickling with tears, which only made him more irked with the situation. He hadn't been snooping through Soda's stuff, having found the letter on accident, well sort of. Okay, so it wasn't . . . completely an accident, so to speak, but it was— Ponyboy shook his head, nose scrunching. Soda had told him he could borrow his sweater, for the younger teen's clothes were getting too small on him, especially through the shoulders. Glory, but his shirts, including the ones he'd gotten from both Darry and Soda, were beginning to stretch through the neck because he was hardly able to fit his shoulders in right. Good Lord. Anyway, he had found a sweater tossed on Soda's bed that he liked enough to borrow, but when he'd grabbed it, he noticed a slightly wrinkled envelope on the floor beside the night table, the stamp of _Selective Service System_ peaking out from the side.

Ponyboy's curiosity had been far too great, and without a moment's worth of hesitation, he had bent down and swiped the letter up, reaching inside and pulling out the two letters—one for a physical examination, and the other for an induction—and he knew, he knew exactly why Soda had been acting so strangely. Maybe nobody else seemed to notice, but Ponyboy had. Even after the rumble, in his bleary state of mind, Ponyboy had been able to detect that something was off with his brother. His grin no longer reached his eyes, his appetite had lessened, and most importantly, he had been quiet. What Soda didn't know was that Ponyboy had also discovered that he had been smoking, a habit that he had never really picked up on. Oh, sure, Soda had done lots of things before, but smoking just wasn't a hobby of his—not regularly at least. So when Ponyboy had saw him smoking late at night on the porch, the smoke billowing out in a trail in front of him, he knew that his assumptions were correct, and now he knew the reason why. Still, even with the letter in hand, the situation was surreal to him, and he found that he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

Just imagining Sodapop somewhere out there, fighting in a war, made Ponyboy feel sick, vile rising to his throat and threatening to spill out of his mouth. He didn't even want to think about Soda like that, didn't want to picture him in uniform wielding a gun, the look of sheer ferocity lingering in his brown eyes, eyes that should be lively and dancing, eyes that should belong to his brother—only they wouldn't be his, and Soda would no longer be . . . Soda.

"Ponyboy?"

The teen jerked around, clearly startled. "Soda," he said, but his brother's name had been said with a tone of accusation, the anger that Ponyboy had been feeling resurfacing. "Why—" he started, trying to keep his tears at bay. "Why didn't you . . . tell us? Me and Darry? Why?"

And when Soda saw the draft letter in his kid brother's hand, his face softened, a look of defeat taking over his features. He knew that he would have to tell both Darry and Ponyboy soon, but he hadn't expected it to be _this_ soon—especially the day after Christmas. A sour feeling formed in his gut, but he rapidly rid himself of it, deciding that he ought to talk to Ponyboy calmly. Besides, he knew that his younger brother was still sensitive and easily got upset, and this . . . this was something he wasn't even sure he knew how to explain to him.

"Ponyboy," he began, and rubbed the back of his head. "Listen to me." He moved inside the bedroom, taking a seat on the bed, expression firm—a look that didn't suit him. "Sit down and let me explain things to you, savvy?"

The fifteen year old wasn't sure that he wanted to hear Soda's explanation, though, but if he ran out of there, he would appear childish and immature, and that was the last thing he wanted. Golly, but Soda was drafted, and if anything, Ponyboy knew that this was harder on him than it was on anyone, even he and Darry. No, Ponyboy wasn't going to run off, even if he was feeling a little bitter and put off. He owed it to his brother to listen to what he had to say—after all, he had only come across the letter by chance, not because it was presented to him. He sat down beside Soda, flipping that godforsaken thing back and forth in his hands, waiting for him to speak.

"I was gonna tell you and Darry," Soda said, voice mellow. "I just didn't want it to be now, and not like this." He turned a little so that he was facing Ponyboy. "I know it seems like I was . . . hiding it from y'all, Pone, but that ain't it, you hear?" He was earnest looking.

Ponyboy, though, ground his teeth. "Isn't there a way—"

"No." There was a bite in his tone, a sharp sound, as he cut his brother off. But then his shoulders seemed to deflate as he leaned forward, elbows pressing into his knees. "Hell, Pony, I thought about leaving to get away, but . . . damn, I ain't a coward, man. That ain't me." He shook his head. "Maybe I was dumb when it came to school, but . . . maybe this is something I can do." His kid brother was looking at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads, and Soda figured he sounded like a lunatic. "Ponyboy, just listen to me for a second, okay? There ain't a way out of this, and . . . Hell, I don't want to go, I don't, but I think I'd hate myself if I was too much of a blasted coward and ran off." Internally, he could see his father looking back at him, his brown eyes proud. "When I'm gone, Ponyboy, I need you to keep an eye on Darry, yeah? He's gonna take this mighty hard, and you're gonna have to look out for him." His voice had softened immensely, and Ponyboy was almost afraid to look at him, afraid that he would see his brother crying. "'Cause, Ponyboy . . . Darry . . . he's got a lot on his shoulders, and well, someone's gotta be his Superman."

Ponyboy could feel his bottom lip trembling. "Soda—"

But the older teen had tossed his arm around his brother's shoulders, pulling him in close as he sniffled a little. "We'll get through this, Ponyboy. I promise I'll come back. You gotta believe that for me . . . you got to." And Steve, he thought to himself, but he wasn't going to share the fact that Steve had enlisted to anyone, not yet. "Can you do that, Pony? Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, sure, Soda," came the muffled answer, tears falling down his cheeks.

Soda nodded, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He would tell Darry soon, but right now wasn't the time. He knew deep in his heart that his older brother was going to try his best to keep himself strong, but Soda also knew that Darry had been under a lot of pressure, and though he had a stony countenance and exterior, he still was only human. And now he and Ponyboy were going to have to count on each other until he came home. They would have to. It was the only way. And Soda would have to count on them to believe that he would come back.

"Alright," he said, patting Pony's arm. "I think that's enough bawling for one day, yeah?" He chuckled a little. "We can't have two bawl babies after all."

Ponyboy laughed lightly, wiping at his dampened cheeks. "No, but we do have three."

* * *

Ella felt a strange kind of relief. Though there was a small part of her that felt bittersweet over the fact that she was no longer an employee at the laundromat, the girl did feel as if a weight had slipped off of her shoulders. She was supposed to come into work for a few hours Wednesday and Friday that week, and even though Ginger had been sympathetic about her mother passing, she hadn't been lenient about letting her go. Unfortunately, for Ginger that is—as she was only the assistant manager—Mrs. Walker had decided to let the teen go. She had thanked her for her hard work and dedication, and even went as far as to tell her that she would always have a job so long as she (Mrs. Walker) was in charge. Ella had only meant to inform them that she would be leaving on the sixth, eleven days from then. She had apologized for the short notice, but Mrs. Walker had been absolutely fine with it, merely letting Ella go and saying that the girl could probably use the extra time to take care of what she needed to. Because of her good work ethic and skills, despite what Ginger had said, Mrs. Walker had paid the girl for the following week, promising to mail her her pay stub.

While that was great and all, Ella just felt . . . strange. It was as if she were leaving everything behind to go to New York, almost as if she was cutting ties in order to start something new. But she wanted this, she had chosen it, or so she had told herself. There was a lot on her plate, and even though Ella had told herself that she was making hasty decisions, she reminded herself that it was all for the best. In the end, she didn't want to be stuck in Tulsa all her life, didn't want to experience a dull life without any type of satisfaction or fulfillment. No, Ella yearned for more, longed to make something of herself, and if New York—Berkeley—was the answer to that, then she was going to go. So lost in her thoughts was she that Ella didn't even hear the voice of Angela Shepard calling out to her, and she was only jostled from them when she was met with a flick on the shoulder.

Angela was staring back at her intently. "Earth to Ella," she said in a snippy tone. "I've been calling you for the past minute or so."

The older girl's cheeks tinted a little. "I didn't even hear you," she admitted. "I was thinking."

Rolling her eyes, Angela crossed her arms beneath her chest. "Right. Well, how've you been? I ain't seen you around in quite some time." A short chuckle fell from her lips. "You know, it's funny, I was actually thinkin' about you the other day." At Ella's raised brow, Angela merely continued. "Tim was talkin' to Dallas or somethin', asked him if he was still seeing you, and I remembered when you and me went to that party back in the Summer."

Ella could have snorted. Oh, she remembered that alright, but not quite the way Angela was relaying it to her. No, Ella had shown up there to meet with Angela, although going was against her moral code and better judgment. She hadn't wanted to go in the first place, but she decided that her life could do with a little excitement and went ahead anyway. Hell, she could recall Angela's brother Curly trying to put the moves on her, and while it hadn't made her feel too hot then, she hardly could feel bugged by it now. But Dallas had come to her aid, even though she wasn't looking for any, having been far too drunk to care about anything, and then he had driven her home. She remembered asking him what his favorite color was, and he had thought she was out of it. But he had answered her, telling her that he liked a night blue, like a midnight sky. The memory brought a slight smile to the teen's lips, and even though those events had only taken place a short time ago, to Ella it felt like it was in the distant past.

"I remember," she decided to say.

Angela lit up a cigarette, a bounce to her step. "So what have you been doin' with yourself?"

A shrug. "Nothing really, taking care of things." She thought about Dallas at the stables a half hour from them, and decided that it wouldn't hurt to tell Angela the news. "I'm leaving in a little over week," she admitted. "I'm going to Berkeley."

For a split second, one so short Ella thought that she might have imagined it, Angela looked jealous. It wasn't an angry expression, but it was bitter. The younger teen wasn't directing any dislike toward Ella herself, but she didn't think she had a chance in hell of ever making it out of that town, a place she so desperately despised. Ella was one of the lucky ones, she figured, she was going somewhere because she was academically smart and used her head where it counted. But on the other hand, Ella also didn't have two brothers who took pleasure in being thugs, prided themselves based on their rap sheets. No, Ella had it better, and because she had it better, she was going to always be better off. Angela wasn't envious of that, but she was bitter over the fact that she had nothing going for herself, and at the rate she was going, she most likely never would. Good things just didn't come for people like her, and she had been well aware of that from a young age.

"Well good for you," she replied, inhaling deeply, expression apathetic. "I hope you find whatever it is you're lookin' for out there."

* * *

Steve hadn't been sure how to spring the news about his enlistment to Evie, so he had simply told her, came right out with it. First, she had been utterly shocked over the fact that Soda had been drafted, a look of sheer surprise plastering her face, and when he had told her what he'd done, she could only look at him with a perplexed expression. He could tell that she didn't believe him, not at first she didn't. Either that or her brain just hadn't processed what he'd said. But Steve couldn't hold the news from her, he just couldn't bring himself to, so when he had gone and got his papers, filled them out and everything, he had decided to immediately divulge everything to his girlfriend. He thought about Soda keeping his draft a secret from his brothers and Mary, wondering how he was dealing with it. As the days passed on, Soda had only grown more withdrawn, and Steve knew that things were starting to take a toll on him, just as they were Steve.

"You . . ." Evie bit her lip, bringing a hand up to her head. "Steve."

She couldn't bring herself to say anything, and for a moment, Steve felt incredibly selfish. Evie had lost their baby, and now he was making the choice to leave her to fight alongside his best buddy. When the thought had first crossed his mind, it didn't seem like a selfish idea, but Steve, in all his eagerness to support his friend, had forgotten about the other people in his life, like Evie. And maybe that was the most selfish and uncaring thing he'd done as of late. Evie was frozen beside him, seemingly almost petrified in her seat. Her eyes were big and wide, and he could tell that a million thoughts were racing through her mind. He brought a hand up to his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to think of something to say. He wanted to assure Evie that he would be okay, but hell, he didn't want to make any promises that he couldn't keep—and that was the reality of it.

Evie sucked in a breath, expression forlorn. "Why didn't you say anything to me, Steve?" She shook her head, turning to face him. The next words out of her mouth were low and soft, gentle even. "I love you, Steve."

"I love you, too, Evie," he replied, sounding as honest as he looked. "None of this changes how I feel about you, babe." Damn, he needed a cigarette. "It ain't that, Evie. You know how I feel about ya." And she did, he knew that she did. He could feel his heart beating hardly, the tension in the car so thick that one could cut it with a knife. Steve drummed his fingers on his lap, wishing more than anything that he could have just stopped and rewound the past several weeks; he needed some normalcy again. "I didn't enlist because—"

But she cut him off, tone sharp. "I know why you enlisted, Steve." She licked her lips, pressing her head back against the seat. "I know that you wouldn't be able to let Soda go into this alone. Y'all are . . . best friends, I get that. I've always known that, and hell, I ain't gonna sit here and give you the third degree . . ." Her words were almost venomous to the dark-haired boy, but what she had said was also the truth. She wasn't jealous, nor was she angry. "I just wish you would have talked to me about it first, told me about Soda." Her gaze drifted out the windshield, the scenery darkening ahead. "Maybe then it wouldn't be such a shock."

"Hell, Evie," Steve said, sighing. "I'm sorry."

But apologizing to her didn't stop the ache in her chest, and it certainly didn't ease her conscious. And though there was ultimately nothing to forgive, for Evie at least, both of them knew that saying sorry would never make up for anything if Steve never made it home, because Evie was already dying inside.

* * *

For as loud as it was in the roadhouse, Ella could only hear silence. Even as a few guys came over to chat with Dallas, she was deaf to the noise around her. It was late, and the place was awfully rowdy for a Monday night—then again, it was also the day after Christmas. Ella never imagined that she would be spending the day after a holiday in a rundown bar. Nevertheless, the girl was almost thankful for the company, that way she didn't feel so alone. Usually, being around Dallas made her feel better, secure, but on this particular night, she was anything but. She was ready to lay her cards out on the table, what she was about to tell him causing a dreadful feeling to swarm in the very pit of her gut.

She sipped her drink slowly, a distant look lurking across her pale face. Glancing up at her boyfriend, she could almost admire the way he held himself. There was so much character in his hard face, so much pride, and behind those icy blue irises, Ella could see so many emotions flickering just beneath the glacier oasis. Dallas Winston wasn't the type of guy Ella got lost in, but he had been able to make her feel so many different things, brought her out of her shell. Ella had always been reserved and quiet, introverted and shy, and while those traits still existed inside of her, she did feel like another person when she was with Dallas, and that was the person she had found that she wanted to be. It wasn't just who she was capable of being in general, but Dallas had opened another side of her, the side she had always been afraid of delving into and bringing out into the light. She shook her head, though, brought out of her thoughts as Dallas's glass hit the table. Her gaze flashed up to his, and she stilled.

"Bored or somethin'?"

She could have chuckled if she weren't feeling so . . . blah. "No, just thinking," came the answer, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "I have a lot on my mind."

The blond wanted to roll his eyes. "Oh, yeah?" He wasn't really interested, slightly irked that she had hardly said a word to him all night. He had told her about his day—only because she had inquired—he had even mentioned Ponyboy's book, and he had offered to take her out for a drink or two, which was why they (she, really) was at Buck's in the first place. He nearly rolled his eyes, but he figured Ella wasn't going to say anything unless he pried. "Care to share, sweets?"

Ella shrugged. "Well, I was going to talk to you this morning—"

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted, lighting a cigarette. "About Berkeley or whatever." His tone was cool, his expression aloof. "What about it?"

"I enrolled . . . officially."

Dallas took a drag of his cancer stick, eyes narrowing just a little. "And?"

Now she looked nervous, fingers beginning to twiddle in her lap. Dallas merely stared at her, waiting for a response. Hell, he didn't know what he was expecting her to say, didn't really care what it was to be quite honest. Or maybe he did, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. But Ella only sat quiet and still for a minute or so, her countenance reflecting uncertainty. The towheaded teen could only wonder what was bugging her—hell, he'd known for a while about her acceptance at Berkeley, they'd had conversations about her going, but he had long tossed it aside, remembering how Ella once told him that she wanted to forget about it, forget about making any decisions until it was time. That day seemed like forever ago, and Dallas figured that—with everything they had been through—maybe it was. But still . . . Ella had relayed that she was officially enrolled, that she would be attending after all. It seemed surreal to him, and he was surprised that she hadn't said anything to him at all about it, even though he had told her to go months back. Well, Jesus Christ.

Ella bit her lip. "Well, I leave January sixth." She took a nervous breath, eyes anywhere but on his own, brows lacing together. "I quit the laundromat, and—"

"Hold up," he bit out, flicking his ashes in the ashtray. "You leave when?"

"Next Friday."

It was Dally's turn to express disbelief, uncertainty. He swore awhile, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he did, eyes turning stony. Well, he wasn't pissed at Ella, but now . . . he was fucking annoyed with her. Christ almighty, but how long ago had she made this decision? He told himself that he didn't care none, that Ella could do whatever the fuck she wanted without any interference from him, and that was the truth . . . whether he liked it or not. He had plans of his own to get the fuck out of that town once he was able to, and as far as he was concerned, those plans of his never involved Ella. His nose wrinkled at the thought, but he blew off whatever feeling was lingering throughout his body.

"Well, ain't that fantastic," he said, sarcasm dripping with every word. "So, what?" he asked, voice becoming hard. "You driving there or somethin'?"

And that's where Ella broke into her elaborate plans of how she was going to pack up her mother's house in the next few days, put their belongings in storage—though not without help, of course—and then she would take care of anything else that needed to be taken care of, like putting the house up on the market, and then she would leave. Just like that. Jan Clarke, her former co-worker at the grocery store, had helped her concoct this plan, and told her how to go about things to set it in motion. Dallas listened to the girl drone on, becoming more surprised by the second. Honestly, he just couldn't bring himself to really believe it, couldn't bring himself to accept the fact that Ella was leaving in . . . eleven or so days? Holy shit.

She trailed on, though, seemingly oblivious to his souring mood. ". . . but I really wanted to talk to you about . . . us." The last word was said with hesitation, Ella's voice softening a bit. "I don't reckon that a . . . long distance relationship—"

Before she could finish what she was going to say, Dallas cut the cord. His voice was bitter and icy as he spoke, eyes lethal as anger crept through his veins. Hell, he didn't know why in the fuck he was angry in the first place. Or was he? Ella looked more emotionless, as if she had prepped herself for this conversation with him, and fuck, maybe she had. But there was a sadness in her eyes, a deep rooted gloomy expression surfacing and reflecting back at him. Her lips were turned into a frown, but she still remained firm, determined to see her plans through.

Dallas exhaled hardly. "Do whatever it is you gotta do, Ella," he said. "I don't care." He leaned back in the seat, tipping his chin back as he took a swig of alcohol, the liquid burning his throat. "I told you once that I don't plan on stickin' around this place, so if you're leavin' anyway . . ." He left the sentence dangling, but Ella understood.

"Dallas—" There was a silent sob bubbling in her throat.

He looked her over once, taking in the pained expression on her face, but ignored it. "Look, just take care of yourself out there, dig?"

A nod, because that's all she could manage to do. Her heart was thudding hardly in her chest, her hands becoming clammy as the seconds passed by. Dallas didn't wait for her to say anything, either, instead making his way up the stairs and leaving her there by herself. Ella held back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks as she sniffled. She stood up, maneuvering herself through the crowd of people, and headed for the door. She didn't look back, either, as she climbed into the Impala and drove away, focus on the road ahead as she pulled out of the lot.

Unbeknownst to her, however, Dallas watched her go from the upstairs window, the darkness his only company for the remainder of the night.

 _But if you want to leave take good care  
_

 _Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there  
_

 _But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware_

* * *

 **As always, thank you for all of the feedback on this story! It means so much! :3**


	39. The Sake of Us

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Ariana Grande owns "My Everything."**

 **(AndThatWasEnough owns Bridget Stevens. Cathy Carlson is based off of lulusgardenfli's version of her.)**

* * *

 _I cried enough tears to see my own reflection in them  
_

 _And then it was clear, I can't deny I really miss him  
_

 _To think that I was wrong  
_

 _I guess you don't know what you got 'til it's gone  
_

 _Pain is just a consequence of love  
_

 _I'm saying sorry for the sake of us_

 **December 30, 1966** _  
_

The house looked strange being practically vacant. There were still a few things, like some boxes and Ella's bedroom items, that needed to be taken to storage, but for the most part, everything was packed up and put away. Of course, Ella hadn't managed it by herself, having the help of Evie, Mary, Jan, Bee Stevens, Cathy Carlson, and surprisingly, Angela Shepard. Two-Bit, Soda, Ponyboy, and Steve had been generous to help out, too, moving some of the bigger and heavier things out of the house. Darry Curtis had let Soda use his truck to help move the stuff over to storage, and even though Ella and her mother hardly had a lot, it just seemed like forever to pack it all up and move it. Really, even as she saw everything placed in the garage (minus what was leftover) it still didn't look like a lot. In a way, the teen was almost grateful for that, for the work was less. It had taken her about two days to pack all the loose items up, and then with the guys, about a day to move it all. Now all that remained were the few things of Ella's, like her bed, the kitchen table, and a few various items that were in boxes. But even the house appeared . . . different, and Ella felt oddly sentimental as she looked around, taking it all in.

Her eyes drifted around, and she could remember being a little girl coming home from school in the afternoons, could still visualize her mother handing her a snack as she came barreling through the door from the school bus. If she focused hard enough, she could almost smell the scent of fresh apple pie emitting into her nostrils, could nearly taste it on her tongue. Her mother had always made the best, or what she thought was the best anyway, and Ella felt a rush of sadness float through her body at the thought that she would never taste it again. Well, at least she had her mother's recipes, recipes that she would keep for the rest of her life. The girl had become quite sentimental and emotional over the course of the past few days, packing things up bringing up new and forgotten memories for her. Even coming across the picture of her mother, her father, and herself had brought tears to her eyes, leaving the teen to remember how alone she was. Not even the company of her friends was enough to dull the ache of losing both of her parents (even though her father had never been a part of her life), and the only two who had understood her pain were Ponyboy and Soda.

A light knock on the door stirred Ella from her thoughts, and she reached up to wipe at her cheeks, not even realizing that she gotten teared up. Glory, she was such a sap, she thought as she she made her way across the living room and to the front door. She could hear two familiar voices and some light chuckling, her mood instantly lightening as she recognized Evie and Cathy. With a small smile of her own, Ella opened the door, thankful to see her two friends. Cathy had returned from Graves Academy for Winter break, and had surprised Ella a few days back by showing up at her house with Evie and Bridget. Mary and Cathy had yet to officially meet, having stopped by at separate times, but they would be meeting for the first time that afternoon, and Ella figured that they would make good friends. (Cathy would be good for Mary, that is.)

"Damn," Evie said, looking around the house, having not been there since earlier the day before. "It looks so different in here." She snapped her gum. "Looks bigger, too."

Ella cocked an eyebrow as Cathy stepped inside. "You think?" she asked, and shrugged. "I thought it looked smaller."

The younger teen chuckled, placing her hand on her hip. "Well, don't having all the furniture and stuff around make it appear smaller . . . and then when everything's gone it looks bigger?" There was an air of snark in her voice, but she wasn't being indignant. "I mean, that's always how I thought of it." She turned again, peaking into the kitchen. "Well . . . never mind," she went on, and shook her head. "I guess from this angle it does look . . . smaller."

Cathy chuckled. "Good Lord," she muttered, and shot Ella a wry grin. "She couldn't make up her mind if she was paid to."

"Watch it, Carlson," Evie said, pointing a finger at her for good measure. She was smiling, though. "So, Ella, what exactly are ya taking at Berkeley?" She glanced once in Cathy's direction. "We were talking about it, and she said culinary, but I thought you said music or something . . ."

She made a sound like a light hum. "I'm interested in musical theater, so that's what I'm officially taking. I've always wanted to take culinary, too, so . . . maybe I'll take a class on that." A shrug. "I just can't believe that I'm actually going, you know?"

It was still a lot to take in for Ella. She had been doing so much, taking care of so many things, kept herself so busy that she forgot to take any time for herself. It seemed surreal that the date she planned to leave on was creeping up so quickly. She would be driving, too. Steve had offered to check her car before she left, make sure it was in good shape and all of that. Jan would be taking the ride to New York with her, insisting that Ella shouldn't go alone like that, which Ella was secretly grateful for. Jan wouldn't be staying long at all, catching a flight back to Tulsa on the ninth.

Evie cocked a dark brow. "Yeah, you and Bridget both." And that had been true, for Bridget Stevens had been excited to learn that Ella had made the official decision to further her education by attending Berkeley. Cathy was happy for their friend, too, as was Evie, although the latter had a different way of expressing so. "She and Mary should be here later."

Ella nodded. This was the only night that they could hangout together, before New Year's Eve. Cathy was spending it with her family, Steve was spending it with Evie's family, and Ella . . . well, she had been invited to Ponyboy's, the offer extended by all three Curtises. Maybe she would show up for a while, she wasn't sure just yet. She figured Bridget would be with friends or Two-Bit, unless he would be sneaking up into her room later on. She inwardly laughed at that, thinking that the two of them were a good couple, good for each other. But this was the only night that the five of them were able to get together for a sleepover. Evie had brought the goods (strawberry wine), Ella supplied the space, Cathy had brought some games, Bridget the goodies, and Mary had promised some other treats. It would be a night of fun, their own little celebration for Ella and for a new year—1967.

"Oh, Ella," Evie called, gathering the older girl's attention. "I know y'all ain't together no more, but I thought maybe . . . you might like to have this."

Ella's heart sank a little even as a smile registered across her full lips. Evie had given her a picture of her and Dallas from the night they had went on that quadrupedal date. She was seated in a booth beside Dally, his arm draped around her shoulders as she looked up at him with a genuine smile, lips parted, eyes bright and cheery. Dallas was grinning down at her, wisps of white-blond hair spilling over his forehead and across his pale brows, a cocky expression in his light orbs. The angle of the picture had been taken from the back, only one side of their faces in view, but even that way, Ella could make out how happy and content she looked, and how at ease Dallas appeared. She missed him something awful, a truth she had been trying to desperately conceal, but she thought of him a lot in the past few days, her heart missing him more than ever.

It had taken her to lose him to fully realize that she was in love with him.

* * *

 _One week had taken all three of them. And I decided I could tell people, beginning with my English teacher. I wondered for a long time how to start that theme, how to start writing about something that was important to me. And I finally began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home . . ._

Dally's eyes were burning, a distinctive crestfallen expression shadowing his face. The book was still held open in his stiff hands, fingers curled around the pages. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips, dark circles coloring the area beneath his icy eyes. Despite the somber look on the teen's face, a dangerous one had surfaced, too. He wasn't angry, though. His heart was thumping against his rib cage, the memories of everything that had taken place zooming through his mind like a broken record that wouldn't stop. He could think of nothing but Johnny Cade, hear nothing but his cries of agony as that piece of wood fell across his back, paralyzing him. He could recall the sounds of sirens, remember riding in the back of the ambulance alongside Johnny, who had been knocked out cold. Dallas could vividly remember every bit of that day, could feel himself pulling the kid out of the collapsing church, and maybe if he had been one minute earlier, maybe if he had went in there after him and Ponyboy . . . maybe things would have been different. But it was useless to consider such things now, and Dally knew that, he did.

It had been a year and three months, and still, to Dallas at least, it seemed no further than yesterday when Johnny Cade had died. The memory caused so many emotions to pool in his gut, caused him to feel too many different things at once. Johnny had been like his own kid brother, two kids cut from the same cloth. They had suffered the same upbringing, but they had made opposite choices in life, and Dallas . . . he had done his best to preserve that good in Johnny, never wanting him to get into trouble; he had been crazy about not wanting Johnny to turn out like him. That kid had been the glue that held everyone together, and they all knew that. Dallas knew it, too. And when Johnny died that night in the hospital with him and Ponyboy at it his side, Dally had lost it. He hadn't wanted to live anymore. He had nothing to keep him going then. He recalled how bitter he had been, how much anger had been pumping through his veins, his heart pumping nothing but pure adrenaline. He had needed something to numb the lingering sadness, the ache where his heart should have been suddenly blossoming things that he didn't even know he was capable of feeling. Or maybe he had buried those emotions long ago, caged them up so he never had to experience them again. But that had been a long time ago, a time the teen hadn't visited since he'd left New York.

But finishing Ponyboy's book . . . Dallas had done it. He knew that all this time he had done nothing but blame himself for the way things had turned out. It was always the "maybe" and the "possibilities" and now . . . there was nothing. Dallas felt number than he ever had. The book was still in his grasp, the printed words staring up him. Johnny was okay with dying, he thought that it was all worth it to save those little kids' lives, that they had more to live for, and that knowledge alone stirred up a deep sorrow inside of the towheaded teen's gut. His jaw clenched as a dry sob spilled from his lips, teeth grinding together hardly as his brows laced together, a deep crease forming along his forehead. He was the spitting image of anguish, all the years of his hardships resting heavily on his shoulders. He thought of Johnny, and in him he could see himself, a childish version peering back at him, the long and hard fight for self-preservation finally taking a toll. He was old, old before his time, and so, so bitter. He could have chuckled at the thought that Ponyboy had been right—nobody had written any editorials praising him, but that was okay, because if anyone deserved that privilege, it was Johnny.

But now Dallas understood.

Hell, he never cared to know what the hell was so . . . special . . . about the kid's book, but now he did, and he knew what he was going to do. At first, he had thought that the story was primarily about the events of last year, September of '65, but it wasn't just about them at all. There was more than just a story that the kid had written about, and as Dallas remembered his conversation with Ponyboy just several days before, he knew exactly what he was going to do. Tossing the book aside, the teen pushed himself off of the bed, the afternoon sun drifting through the window and casting a glow across his face as he dug around the nightstand for the damn consent form. Ponyboy had given it to him some time ago during the Summer. He knew that Ponyboy was a smart kid, had turned in the other forms to that publisher of his, and now the only thing (or person) holding up his publication was none other than Dallas Winston himself. With pursed lips and a determined expression blanketing his face, the blond dug around the top drawer, tossing various papers and other nonsense that wasn't important out of the way before he finally found what he was looking for. It was there, buried beneath an old bible that Mrs. Curtis had given him many years ago, the pages yellowing and smelling of age.

The consent form was in his grip in a second, his eyes scanning the page for any sort of contact, a way to get in touch with this publisher guy. Hell, Dally couldn't remember the guy's name for the life of himself, couldn't even recall Ponyboy mentioning it to him. Christ, but he wasn't even sure if there was still time to do what he needed to, unless Ponyboy had called the guy and decided to change his name to something fictional. Fuck. But Dallas was in luck, because there on the back was the information that he was looking for. Dale Franklin. Bingo. Dallas shoved his feet into his boots, pulled his jacket on, and placed the book in his pocket beside his pack of smokes, and made his way downstairs. He had to call this Dale Franklin and make sure that there was still time left. Buck said something to him as he came barreling down the stairs looking like a man on a mission, which is exactly what he was. A few people who were hanging around the place nodded to him, or greeted him, but he was too busy to care or acknowledge them, his mind only focused on one particular thing. Licking his lips, Dallas rounded the corner of the bar and reached for the phone, dialing Franklin's number.

A few rings later and someone—a receptionist—answered. Dallas impatiently had asked to speak to a Mr. Dale Franklin, his words somewhat rushed and aggravated. Then again, Dally wasn't a patient guy by default, and when he was anxious, like he was right then, it only made things worse. His fingers were aimlessly tapping the side of the rottery as he watched the clock on the wall opposite of himself, frustration beginning to seep through his body by the time two minutes had past. And finally (thank fuck) a thick and heavy voice came through the speaker.

"Dale Franklin."

The scowl on the teen's face slightly vanished. "Dale Franklin . . . this is Dallas Winston."

* * *

Mary could tell that something was going on with Soda. It was the way his eyes kept avoiding her own, it was the way his voice seemed to crack, the words he spoke so soft, too soft, even for him. There was a gloomy look veiling his features, a stormy expression reflecting in his brown irises, and it was a look that Mary didn't quite like. Soda always appeared happy-go-lucky and optimistic, especially when it was just the two of them alone together like this. Mary herself always felt comfortable around Soda, enjoyed being in his company more than anything. It seemed silly that between them, she had always been the one with troubles, always coming to him for support and help. But now Soda looked as though he was on the opposite end of the field, and Mary felt her heart plummeting straight into the pit of her stomach as she stared at him. Reaching a hand out, she gently touched his forearm, her fingers brushing over the tensed muscle—and as she stole a quick glance up, she noticed his brow twitch a little, as if he wanted to shrug her off. Mary reluctantly recoiled her hand, turning to her side as she and Soda looked out at the vacant scenery ahead. Time ticked on.

Soda lit a cigarette several moments later, a blank look on his face now. His gaze rested on Mary, but only for a second. He wasn't sure how to tell her that he had been drafted, that he would be leaving her in two weeks. It seemed like a nightmare that he couldn't wake up from, and just the thought of Mary's stricken and heartbroken face in his mind made him feel lousy. Glory, but he knew he had to tell her, had to get it out in the open, but he just couldn't find it within himself to do so. How would she take it? How would he take it? Hell, telling Darry had been tedious enough, and even though his older brother had remained level-headed and stoic about the situation at hand, Soda knew—as he always did—that Darry just about lost it inside. He knew that Darry had spent night after night crying in his room after their parents had died, but he would never let anyone see him doing it. In his own mind, he had to remain strong, had to be the rock, for his kid brothers. Soda knew that. He always had. Ponyboy had begun hanging around him more often, practically gluing himself to his hip, and Darry . . . Darry didn't so much as press him about anything. Then they had found out that Steve had enlisted, and hell, but Soda thought that Two-Bit was about to drop like a sack of potatoes right there on the kitchen floor.

Dallas hadn't said anything, but Darry had told him the other night when he had stopped by to check in on them; Soda had heard them talking on the front porch, the sound of Darry's voice wavering as he relayed the news to the towheaded hood.

"Soda?"

Mary's gentle voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned his attention to her, the sides of his mouth curving down as he took in her concerned countenance. The smoke billowed around them, the grayish trail dissipating in the breeze, goosebumps pimpling Mary's skin as she shivered slightly in her lighter jacket, one that definitely wasn't suitable for the frosty day they were having. Soda tossed his cigarette butt away, draping a heavy arm around the girl's trembling frame. She immediately leaned into his side, the floral smell of her hair and woodsy scent of her perfume radiating into his nostrils and setting him at ease for a few minutes.

"Mary," he started, fingers pressing a little into her arm, "I love you. You know that, right?"

The girl's head tilted a little as she peered up at him. "Of course, Soda," she replied, and then she took in the expression blanketing his face. "Soda, what is it?"

"I've got to tell ya something, darlin'," he said. After a few seconds, he pulled away from her a little, missing the feeling of her body being snuggled against his own. "Mary—" He froze, though, his throat seeming to tighten. Golly, why was it so hard to tell her? Why couldn't he just say what he needed to? His lips pressed together, and he chewed the inside of his cheeks, feeling nothing but helpless. In his mind he could picture him and Mary together, a bright future on the horizon for them, and golly, but that seemed to be the only thing that was keeping him going now. His focus was brought back to Mary as her delicate fingers stroked his jawline, turning his head to face her, eyes searching his. And as he looked at her, _really_ _looked_ at her that time, he could feel tears prickling his eyes. "Mary, I've been—" And a sob escaped his lips as he turned away from her. He was such a blasted sap. "I was drafted," he finally said, the words rushed and painful. Hell, they felt like vinegar inside his mouth. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you . . . before, but—"

"Soda," Mary said, and reached for him again, this time pulling him to her. His arms instantaneously gripped her tightly as he buried his face in her neck. He didn't care how much of a pansy he looked like, he didn't care that he was half-crying in front of a girl, because it was Mary. Mary was with him, Mary's arms were around him, his arms were around her. And that's all that mattered. He breathed her in, his chest tightening as he hiccuped. "Soda, it's okay," Mary continued, her fingers encircling his neck and raking through his greased locks. "It's . . . it's going to be okay."

"How can you say that?" he asked, a bite in his tone. He didn't mean to sound so indignant. He took a breath, eyes squeezing for a moment. "I'll be leavin' soon, Mary, real soon, and I—"

She pulled back, the wind blowing some of her dark hair across her face. She looked at him, her lips slightly parted, eyes gazing over his features as her hands held his face, her palms resting against his cheeks, fingers just touching his ears. They were close enough to one another that their breaths were fanning each others skin, and Soda wanted nothing more than to kiss her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and right then, she was the only thing he could really feel. He had felt her heart beating opposite of his when he had held her in his arms, and he was certain that there was no better fit for him other than Mary DeVaney. She was his . . . everything.

"You'll come back, Soda Patrick Curtis," she said, a determined look on her face. "You'll come back, do you hear me? And when you do, I'll be right here. I'll wait for you, Soda, no matter how long." There was no ounce of uncertainty in her voice as she relayed those words, nothing but sheer honesty. "I will write you all the time, I'll pray for you every day . . ." She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his once, her warmth enveloping him and drawing him nearer to her like a magnet. "I'll think of you every single day, Soda." And then she sniffled, tears rolling down her cheeks like droplets of rain on a window pane. "You have my heart, Soda."

It sounded cheesy to say, but Mary didn't care. She was shocked, hurt, and scared, but outweighing those emotions was her internal love for Soda, a kind of love that she once thought only existed in fairy tales, the kind of love Aunt Vera didn't believe in and scolded her for talking about. But here she was in the arms of the man she loved, loved more than life itself, and now he would be leaving her, traveling with her heart, and though it pained Mary more than anything, she had faith, and she believed that Soda would come back to his family, his friends, and to her. She believed that, and she clung to her promise that she would always be waiting for him, because that was all that mattered. Nothing else. She had given him every part of herself, loved him with a love that was undeniable and authentic. There would never be anyone else for her, not like Soda.

"I love you, Mary," he whispered against her lips, his forehead resting against her own.

Her eyes closed. "As I love you, Soda."

* * *

Ella giggled as Cathy tossed a balled up napkin at Evie, the brunette narrowly dodging it. She chewed on a Hershey bar as she divvied up her money and handed it to the older girl. Evie had a mischievous glint in her brown eyes as she took the money, smugly thanking Cathy with a small smirk. Ella shook her head and spun the spinner, smiling as she landed on "Pay Day." Beside her, Evie rolled her eyes, and even Cathy quirked a brow. So far, Ella had been rather lucky this game, whereas Cathy had been having the worst of luck, and Evie kept hitting something like "Lose a Turn" or something that caused her to have to owe money. Ella hadn't played _Life_ in quite a while, and even she had to admit that she was doing rather well. She had always enjoyed board games, though, always had fun playing them.

"You gotta teach me your trick," Evie said, and took her turn. She counted the spaces and read the tiny words on the board, brow raising before a scowl formed on her lips. "Well, so much for that," she dramatically huffed, and counted out her money before handing it back to Cathy.

Cathy cat-grinned. "That's right. I am the artist!"

"Yeah, yeah," Evie said, and bit into her candy bar. She eyed the clock, wondering when Bridget and Mary were going to arrive, but she remembered that Bridget had earlier plans with Cherry Valance and some of her other Soc-y friends before she headed over with Mary. As if on cue, though, the three girls had perked up as the sound of Bridget's Beetle could be heard in the distance. Well, speak of the devil, or think, Evie thought to herself. "I think I hear Stevens," she announced, and Cathy dashed toward the living room window, nearly spilling her cup of Pepsi in the process. "Well?"

An anxious nod, and Cathy's inky hair tumbled into her face. "Yup, that's her alright."

Behind her, Evie strolled up as Ella opened the front door just as Bridget came to a stop in front of her house. She could see both girls waving at her through the window, and she smiled, eagerly waving back. Oh, how Ella had missed her friends, and just having them there was a comfort to her. Bridget and Mary climbed out of the Bug, grabbing some bags, blankets, and pillows, before making their way up to the porch. Ella nearly chuckled to herself, finding some odd humor in the fact that out of all of them, she was the outcast. Evie, Bridget, Cathy, and Mary all had dark hair. Evie's hair was more of a dark brunette, whereas Bridget's hair was jet-black, Cathy's was ink-black, and Mary's was a soft black. But Ella's was a chocolate brown, with some caramel streaks through it. Strangely enough, none of them shared similar eyes. Ella's were dark blue, Evie's were dark brown, Cathy's were gray, Bridget's were vivid green, and Mary's were the color of caramel. Plainly put, each girl was vastly unique, in both physique and personality.

"Wow," Bridget said as she entered the house. "It's so different looking."

"Right?" Evie replied. "I said that, too."

Mary placed her belongings on the couch, eyeing _Life_ with a curious look. "I haven't played a board game in . . . forever." There was somber tone to her voice that Ella had picked up on. She was certain that it wasn't because of missing out on games, though, but she hadn't questioned it. Still, Mary merely continued on. "Bridget and I picked up some snacks on the way."

"Sweet," Evie said in an almost sing-song fashion. "Y'all in the mood for some pizza, though?"

Cathy chuckled. "It's not even the dinner hour yet."

Evie simply shrugged. "That's alright. We can order more later."

* * *

There was nothing too great about Dale Franklin's office, or so Dallas thought anyway. He really didn't want to be there to begin with, and he was certain that Franklin knew that, too. However, the older man was too busy going over the consent form to really notice or care how Dallas was feeling in that moment, his eyes focused as he read over the agreement section and all that jazz—things that the blond-headed teen could care less about. He sat in the plush chair across from the desk, arms crossed as he looked at nothing in particular. His gaze was icy, though, but Franklin hadn't seemed the slightest bit put off about his presence at all. In fact, when Dallas had walked through his door, the man had immediately greeted him as if they were old friends. Dallas had been mighty surprised, a scowl on his face, his lips pressed together firmly. Well, he figured that this guy was a good publisher for Ponyboy, that much was for certain. Hell, maybe the kid would publish more books in the future, who knew.

Franklin breathed, pulling out a file and placing Dallas's form with it. "Well, I think that about does it, Mr. Winston," he said, and gave him a genuine smile. "Better late than never, but Ponyboy's book will most likely be on the market within a few months."

The teen's brow quirked. "That's it?"

Franklin nodded. "That's it." He leaned back a little and folded his hands across his middle, a leisure expression on his face. "You know," he began, "I was surprised to receive a phone call from you. I did speak with Ponyboy a while back, and he had mentioned your . . . procrastination." He looked a little thoughtful. "I can't say that I blame you, however. I understand the story itself touches on a lot of . . . personal topics, and leniency isn't an easy things to offer, is it?"

Dallas snorted. "He could have just went with a fictional name in place of mine if he was so bent out of shape with the whole thing, man. I wouldn't have minded. I'm just doin' him a favor now, that's about it. He wants to get this book out there and share the story, good for him."

"What did you think of the story?"

The teen made a face, somewhat condescending. "What do you want me to think of it?" he asked, his voice coming out sharp. "It happened."

Now Franklin leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. He looked Dallas over, taking in his hard face and rough exterior. Ponyboy hadn't been joking when describing the seventeen (now nineteen) year old former hoodlum. He was angry looking and held himself with a tough countenance, unable to be penetrated. There was a glint to his eyes, a dangerous and lethal look, that came from years on the street, the lines in his face reflecting the abuse and trauma he had endured. But while Ponyboy's very detailed description of the teen was accurate to a fault (Franklin couldn't deny that he was impressed by the kid's blatant way of putting a person on paper), there was more than just that hardness, that tough and mean demeanor that Dallas Winston so projected. Franklin could see that now, and he understood, understood a lot more than he was letting on.

"I know," he responded, almost casually. "I know that."

Giving him a blank stare, Dallas shifted in the seat. "And look at that," he smarted, "Ponyboy will be able to tell the whole damn world now."

* * *

Empty cups, wrappers, plates, and other assorted items littered the living room, but Ella didn't mind at all, at least not then. Her friends had passed out an hour or two ago, but she was still wide awake, a deep and foreign feeling swirling around in her gut. She was seated at the end of her bed, her body sloped against the wall as she stared out the side window, the very same window that Dallas used to tap on whenever he would stop by. A light, barely noticeable, smile brushed the girl's lips as she stared off into the darkened scenery, hardly any stars out this particular night. Perhaps it was the wine in her system that was making her feel so sentimental and mellow, or maybe it was just the emotions she had kept concealed for the last few days finally surfacing. Ella didn't know, and truthfully, she didn't care.

She thought a great deal about herself and what her life was going to become in New York. The day she had received her acceptance letter seemed like a distant memory, and Ella wondered if she was really making the right decision. She thought about her friends . . . and she thought about Dallas. Her eyes closed as she raised her hand to her mouth, fingers brushing against her lips as she recalled the feeling of him kissing her. If she focused enough, she could almost feel his arms enveloping her body, the warmth of his breath fanning her skin, and just the memory of those nights that they had spent together caused a deep and overwhelming sensation to surge throughout Ella's body. She made a sound like a groan of agony, hand covering her mouth entirely as to not wake her friends. She didn't want to disturb them with any of the feelings she was having, didn't want to bother them with her nonsense. Besides, Evie and Mary had enough on their plates with Soda and Steve leaving in the next two weeks or so, and Ella didn't want to burden them with her silly woes. Bridget had been excited for her to go to New York anyway, even offering advice about different areas, or places she could visit if she had any free time, and Cathy would be returning to Grave's to finish out her junior year before returning in the Summer.

Ella glanced down at her lap, a forlorn expression on her face as she looked at the picture of her and Dallas that Evie had given her. She appeared so happy, and even though that day hadn't been too long ago, to Ella it seemed like a lifetime, as did everything now. There were so many new things for her on the horizon, too many things awaiting her future. Securing the picture to her chest, the teen breathed in deeply, gaze finding the moon just outside her window, her eyes bleary with tears that wouldn't fall.

* * *

Dallas sucked on a cigarette, the cool air nipping his skin. He rested his weight against the bridge, his elbows pressing into the wooden rail. His white-blond hair stuck out like a sore thumb in the darkness, his icy irises like frozen crystals against his fair skin. The smoke from the cigarette swirled out around him, looking almost like fog as it emitted into the air before dissipating altogether. Despite being tired, Dallas hadn't wanted to return to Buck's, didn't want to sleep. He had been doing nothing but thinking about Ponyboy and that book since he had left Franklin's office late that afternoon. He had thought about going to see the kid, tell him that he was going to be published or whatever, but he ultimately decided not to. He had no clue as to when Franklin was gonna tell him the news, that Dallas himself had signed the consent form and drove there himself, last minute or not. It seemed surreal even to the teen himself, but what did it matter?

Hell, he thought about Johnny and the events that had led up to his death, and he considered the fact that if he had never sent him and Ponyboy to that blasted church in the first place, the kid might still be alive—punk. But it was too late to worry over it now, even though that's exactly what Dallas had been doing since the moment Johnny had taken his final breath. All the considerations and possibilities of how things might have been different if they had never come to him in the first place. But back then, Ponyboy and Johnny both had been nothing more than scared kids, and he had been nothing but the one they believed could get them out of town. Dally vividly remembered them coming to him that night, the frightened look in both of their eyes, a look he knew all too well. (He remembered it a little bit differently than how Ponyboy had told it, but still . . .)

It seemed like ten years ago rather than a measly one.

The story itself had taken him back to a time and place that he didn't want to remember, didn't ever want to think about. It stirred up emotions in him that he thought he couldn't feel, didn't think he was capable of ever experiencing, at least not since he was a child. He thought about Johnny, remembered how he could see himself in him, recalled how much the punk had meant to him. Ponyboy had been right about that, Dallas thought with a small smirk. For a quiet, mousy kid, Ponyboy was really quite observant, but Dally reckoned that he was like Mrs. Curtis that way. She always knew the score. But she was gone, same as her husband, same as Johnny Cade. And Dallas . . . he was stuck in that town, though he didn't have any plans of staying much longer. He thought about Ella, remembered how he had told her to go to New York and leave Tulsa, and now she was doing just that. Just like everything in Dallas's life, she was gone, too. Or would be anyway.

But it didn't matter none, or at least that's what he told himself. It was always the same repetitive mantra that he told himself in order to keep going, in order to keep himself tough, because that was the only way he knew. You get tough and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothing can touch you . . .

Stubbing the cigarette against the rail, Dallas turned on his heel and headed down the bridge as he let his feet carry him into the darkness, the only light being the moon overhead.

 _I know you're not far, but I still can't handle all the distance  
_

 _You're traveling with my heart  
_

 _I hope this is a temporary feeling  
_

 _'Cause it's too much to bear without you_

 _And I know sorry ain't the cure  
_

 _If I cross your mind just know I'm yours  
_

 _'Cause what we got is worth fighting for_

* * *

 **One chapter left!**

 **Thank you for reading! :3**


	40. Free

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers own "Wildflowers."**

* * *

 _You belong among the wildflowers  
_

 _You belong in a boat out at sea  
_

 _You belong with your love on your arm  
_

 _You belong somewhere you feel free_

 **January 5, 1967**

Dallas sat across from Officer Henderson, his brows crinkled together, his lips in a tight line. It was too early for this damn bullshit, the teen thought with bitter resentment, and even worse, he had a slight hangover. Still, that hadn't stopped ol' Henderson—the prick—from barging into his room at Buck's at nearly seven o'clock in the fucking morning just to haul his ass down to the station. And for what Dally didn't even know. Henderson had sure been acting off, too, but there was something else lurking behind his thin smile and smug expression, and Dallas wasn't sure what it was. Hell, if he didn't know any better, he would guess that Jack Henderson had one helluva secret, something to get over on him. The blond kicked back in the chair, crossing his hands behind his head and yawning. Henderson was still looking through his file, and with each second that past, his smile only grew.

Rolling his eyes, Dallas decided that he was fed up with waiting. "So what is this, Jackie? You dragged my ass down here for what, to dig through my file in front of me?" His voice was condescending and lethal, his eyes beginning to blaze. He wondered if anything interesting had happened in town recently that he had (unfortunately) missed out on. It could be, but then again, nothing seemed to be going on, nothing good, that is, but still . . . there was a possibility that Dallas could have missed it. Henderson was just acting too . . . weird for Dallas's comfort. "Whatever it is you think you got on me, you don't got shit," he bit out, aggravation seeping through his words.

Henderson seemed to spring back to life, and the teen cocked an eyebrow as he spoke. "That so?" he asked, mirroring his look. "I'd say you're quite wrong, Dallas."

A snort. "Yeah? Well what do you think I did, _Jackie?_ " His name was dragged through the teen's teeth, emphasized and mixed with vexation. "Enlighten me, would ya?"

Glory, Dallas needed a fucking cigarette. He hadn't even been awake when Buck came barreling into his room earlier that morning. He had woken up to the older cowboy shaking him roughly, the stench of his morning breath mixed with coffee and smoke enough to gag a maggot. Dallas inwardly cringed just remembering it. He had nearly punched Buck's lights out—fucker knew better than to ever shake him up like that—but then fucking Henderson appeared behind him and was going on about how he was taking Dallas down to the station and whatever-the-fuck-else. Dallas could have cared less, but Jesus Christ almighty, couldn't he have one measly smoke? He knew the drill, though, and he figured that Henderson was going to drag out whatever little game he was up to just to toy with him.

He was right . . . or so he thought.

"Dallas, you haven't had any police trouble in"—He glanced down at the file—"over fifteen months. I'd say that's quite a record for you." A smirk. "You passed your senior year and received your high school diploma back in June, and you've maintained a job for over three months." The older man leaned forward, then, crossing his hands on the table. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Now Dallas felt rigid. "Nothin'." Christ, what the fuck did this guy expect him to say? "Do I get some kind of award or somethin'?" he questioned, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

It was Henderson's turn to roll his eyes, but he still maintained composure. "What I want to know, if you could quit acting like some punk, Dallas, is how you feel now that you've done honest work and haven't seen the inside of a cell in over a year."

Really, Dallas didn't know to say to that. In his mind, he felt oddly satisfied with himself, proud even, that he had proved that judge wrong. Yeah, they thought that he wouldn't be able to survive a year without getting some kind of arrest, and now he had shown them all just how wrong they were. He could remember that day in the court room, taking that stupid plea bargain to complete one year of school and earn his diploma—worst eight months of his life. But then he had to stay out of trouble for two years or some shit, or whatever else (he didn't care) and then . . . that was it. Suddenly, it hit him what the hell was going on here, what Henderson was doing. But . . . how could it be when he still had nearly a year to go? He recalled telling Ella that he didn't have long to go before his probation was over, and really ten to twelve months wasn't really too bad, considering that he'd had worse, even though he had always fucked up. But truthfully, the teen didn't know how he felt about any of it, didn't know what to make of the situation.

He shifted in the chair, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I ain't got nothin' to say."

Jack Henderson merely stared at him. "You can't tell me that you don't feel some kind of pride, Dallas, that you haven't considered that . . . living life another way could be beneficial to your future in the long run."

The blond scowled. "Don't tell me you're gonna shrink me, man."

"On the contrary," came the immediate response, and Henderson closed the file. "Dallas, you're free to go," he said. "Your probation is over."

"Thought it was two years."

Henderson glanced at the former hoodlum, taking in the confused expression plastering his face. If he wasn't mistaken, though, and he was certain he wasn't, there was a look of shock in his pale orbs, as if he were stunned that this was even happening. Henderson expected that entirely, though, because this was Dallas Winston. He lived his life on the edge and was proud of all of his accomplishments—ones that had earned him one of the longest records in Tulsa and had him following a path of criminality from a young age. Still, Henderson had always seen some form of potential in the teen, knew there was more to him than just his cruel ways and lack of care.

"It was two years," he confirmed. "But you've proven yourself enough that . . . well, it was shortened, and the judge decided to cut you early." A smirk. "We'll just call it good behavior."

Dallas was still expressing bewilderment. "So that's it, then?"

A nod. "That's it. Enjoy your freedom, Dallas."

* * *

"Thank you again, Mr. Franklin," Ponyboy said, the shock on his face quite evident. "You, too." There was a pause, and then the teen hung the phone up, trying to gather his thoughts. Across the kitchen, his brother cocked an eyebrow at him, silently wondering what was going on. "You'll never believe what Mr. Franklin just told me."

Soda nearly tossed the dish rag at him. "Well spill it already, kiddo!"

Hell, Ponyboy had been so worried about what was going to happen with his book. Both Darry and Soda were aware that their younger brother had spoken with Dallas about the usage of his name in the official publication, but none of them had heard anything from the towheaded hood regarding the book itself or the consent of his name. Even though Ponyboy had been quite mopey about the whole ordeal, he had also relayed that there was a second option: one where he could use a fictional name is place of Dallas's. Darry figured that, since Dallas hadn't gotten back to him, it would be the right way to go . . . if Pony was desperate enough to have his book published while not breaching the contract. Soda, on the other hand, had been somewhat opposed to the idea, thinking that the story just wouldn't be right without Dallas's name in it. Good Lord, but he could remember Ponyboy using the name "Denver Weston" in place of Dally's; the thought still made him shudder. Soda had quite the mind to go and find ol' Dally and let him know just what he thought, but Darry had told him to stay out of it, which had surprised the golden-haired teen more than anything. Then again, the choice was Ponyboy's, as it was his book, so in the end, only what he decided would matter. Still, the thought had made the middle Curtis sibling grit his teeth in irritation. But Ponyboy had also spoken to Mr. Franklin the day before New Year's eve, letting him know that Dallas hadn't communicated with him or anything, and that he was going to go with a fictional name in place of his.

Ponyboy's eyes were real bright, one corner of his lips threatening to turn upward into a grin. "It was Dally," he replied. "He spoke to Mr. Franklin. My book's gonna be published officially, and well, Mr. Franklin believes it'll hit shelves by early Summer this year!"

Soda couldn't contain the smile that etched across his face. "This Summer?" he nearly yelled, unable to conceal his excitement. Holy— "My kid brother is a published author," he said, tossing the rag back on the counter. And then he bolted forward, his arms wrapping around the younger teen's shoulders as he embraced him tightly. "Congratulations, Ponyboy," he said. "Me an' Darry . . . we're so proud of you, man. So damn proud."

"Thanks, Soda," came the muffled response, and he pulled away a little. He still couldn't believe that Dallas had went to speak to his publisher about his book, had signed the consent form, and everything, and it was on the same day he'd decided to just go with the fictional name. He glanced up at his older brother. "Dally really came through."

A nod. "That's great, Pony, real tuff, too." It didn't take much to put two and two together. Hell, Soda couldn't seem to fathom Dallas Winston doing such a thing, either. He knew that Ponyboy was most likely going to speak to him, but right now, Soda wasn't real worried about that. He patted his brother's shoulder before poking his head down the hallway, the sound of the shower running barely audible through the closed door. He made his way back, knocking once before opening it a crack and poking his head inside. "Hey, Darry," he called, excitement in his voice as he silently chuckled at his older brother's string of profanities. "You might wanna hurry up in there. Ponyboy just got some news about his book!"

* * *

It wasn't quite dark out, the sun just beginning to set. Even though it was brisk and cool out, January weather settling in, Ella felt strangely comfortable. She stood beside Ponyboy in the cemetery facing Johnny Cade's headstone, her gut swelling with emotion. There were a lot of things floating through the girl's mind at that particular moment, like the fact that this was her final day in Tulsa, that she would be leaving for New York tomorrow morning, bright and early with Jan Clarke. She had ultimately decided to spend the evening with Ponyboy and his family, surprised to hear the news about her friend's book. It stunned her that Dallas had finished it, that he had turned in the consent form signed, and that he had actually went to see Mr. Franklin himself. Something in the teen's chest fluttered—maybe it was her heart—and she suddenly felt weak. It wasn't a sick feeling, but it was more . . . troubling, and Ella felt it crawling through every inch of herself, every part of her veins, and filling her with distress. She hadn't seen her ex (it felt so bizarre to refer to him as such) since they had broken up, and each day that had passed by only made Ella feel worse. But she wasn't sure if she did see him that it would make things better or worse. Did they even have anything to say to each other? Ella knew the answer to that, but she would never truly admit her feelings to herself.

Ponyboy's eyes drifted onto her. "You okay?" he asked, curiosity laced into his tone.

Ella nodded once. "Yeah, just thinking." She sent him a small, feigned smile. The evening had seemed to be passing by quickly, too quickly, and Ella simply felt overwhelmed. Everything she had needed to do was all taken care of, but glory, she couldn't stop herself from worrying. The air felt still, and the brown-haired girl looked around herself, taking in the darkening scenery. "It's so peaceful here," she said, and crossed her arms around her middle.

The younger teen nodded almost solemnly. "Yeah," he agreed, and stepped forward to place his fingers against his friend's headstone. "Thanks for coming with me, Ella."

"Of course, Ponyboy."

They began walking back to her car in silence, but both of them felt comfortable around the other. In fact, Ponyboy had trusted Ella enough to ask her if she would like to accompany him to the cemetery that evening, a place he actually found some solace in. Perhaps he was strange, perhaps it was an odd thing to do, but he didn't care what others thought, and Ella hadn't seemed to mind. Truthfully, Ella had been rather curious, and though she didn't know Johnny Cade in life, she had felt like a part of her had, for Ponyboy's story had made her feel close to him in some way. Visiting his grave with Ponyboy had brought her a sense of peace, and there was a part of her that felt closer to him as well, as if she had the ability to understand him more as a person. But Ella and Ponyboy had formed a deep and profound friendship over the course of a year and a half, and Ella was truly grateful to have him in her life.

"So what do you think you'll do at Berkeley?" Ponyboy asked once they were inside the car. "I mean, other than study musical theater?"

Ella shrugged. "You know, I'm not too sure." She made a face. "I think, Ponyboy, that I'm going to just let things happen this time, you know? I'm going to let them just happen without looking for them, if that makes sense."

A nod. "It does."

Shifting in the driver's seat, Ella pulled out her pack of cigarettes, offering one to Ponyboy, who gladly accepted. They smoked quietly, both teens lost in their own thoughts. For Ponyboy, he was still fixed on his book and what was going to come for him. It seemed that so much had changed now, but in a way, he wasn't put off by it. He was going to miss Ella, he was going to miss their long talks and the conversations they had with each other, and even though he was happy that she had decided to go to Berkeley and pursue her dreams, he wasn't happy that she was leaving. There had been a time in his life when only one person had ever really understood him outside of his own family, and that had been Johnny Cade. He recalled considering Ella Mitchell that close at one point, and figuring that they shared so much in common, he was certain that she was that other person in his life that he could simply open up to and feel comfortable with. He wouldn't ever admit it to her, though, but he was somewhat glad that she was no longer with Dallas Winston. For a long time, he had been silently opposed to the relationship altogether, but like Evie, he remained neutral. Surprisingly, Ella and Dallas—from what he had heard anyway—hadn't ended on bad terms, but from what he had gathered from Evie and Two-Bit, there had been some . . . friction. In the end, he supposed it was for the best that the two of them went their separate ways, even though it wasn't really his place to voice that. He was just content in the fact that both of them were okay with each other, as far as he knew anyway.

Beside him, Ella was considering everything that had led up to this very moment. She inhaled deeply, her elbow resting on the window sill as she rested her hand against her head. It was getting darker out now, but neither she or Ponyboy seemed to really notice. Just sitting there beside the younger teen made Ella think about all of her friends. She thought about Evie and Steve, and she knew that Evie was going to take it mighty hard when Steve left with Soda. And then there was Bridget and Two-Bit, who Ella could only cross her fingers for. There was Mary, who had been so devastated when she divulged that Soda had been drafted; what would come for her? And of course there were those that Ella had become cordial with like Angela Shepard and Darry Curtis, and she wondered what the future held in store for them. She considered Ponyboy, too, and she smiled as she did. He was such a good person, a wonderful friend. He was going places, Ella knew that, and she knew that his friends and brothers knew that as well. He had a good head on his shoulders, was smart, and he had a book going on the market come that Summer. Ella was excited for him, truly she was.

And then there was herself.

All the things that had led up to this point had made her who she was in this moment. She could vividly remember the beginning of Summer when her mother had gotten sick for the second time, all the worry and concern resting on her shoulders. She recalled Dallas asking her out for the first time, the way he had kissed her that night on her porch, the way he had looked at her and made her feel like a whole new person. Maybe it wasn't the person she was, but it was the person she could be, the person she wanted to be. But she had known—and maybe she had always known it—that she and Dallas weren't really meant to be in the long run. They were just too different. Maybe things could have worked out, Ella wasn't so sure now, and even though her heart ached when she thought of him, she found some happiness in it, too.

She breathed, holding back the tears she felt brimming her eyes. "You'll have to let me know when your book hits shelves so I can purchase a copy."

Ponyboy shook his head, flicking his ashes out the cracked window. "Nah, I'll mail you the first copy when I receive it from Mr. Franklin and the company."

"You know something," Ella began, lips pursing, "I'm really going to miss you, Ponyboy."

The younger teen turned to face her, a sincere look on his face. "I'm going to miss you, too, Ella."

* * *

It was late by the time Ella went home that night. She was tired, anxious, and eager for the following day's events, and honestly, because she didn't have a bed, she wasn't looking forward to sleeping on the floor of her bedroom. Jan had offered to let her stay the night, but Ella politely declined, deciding that she wanted one last night in her house, her childhood home. It was the very place she had grown up in, the place that reminded her of her mother and the years they spent there. To Ella, even though there was some bittersweet sentiment lingering in the air, it was where she found the most peace. She felt closer to her mother there, and even though she was leaving it all behind for good, Ella figured that (like Ponyboy had said), it was for the best. She wasn't making the wrong decision, and she knew that now—she had come to learn that.

The girl's peace of mind was cut short as she turned onto her block and saw a familiar truck parked just in front of her property. Her heart instantly began pounding harder against her chest, and her eyes widened in the darkness as she made out Dallas's form sitting on her porch steps. He appeared to be slouched over, elbows resting on his knees as he leisurely smoked a cigarette, however, he glanced up as Ella pulled the Impala in the driveway, cutting the ignition a moment later. She was hesitant to get out of the car and see what he wanted, she was nervous, as if for the first time, to speak to him at all. It didn't feel right, but there was also a deep yearning to do so.

Dallas was already standing by the time she had gotten out of the car and made her way over to him, a cool sensation creeping up her spine. There were butterflies in her stomach, but not because she was excited to see him, but because she was nervous to face him. There was a silence that past them, and for a moment, Ella didn't know whether or not to speak first or what. She looked him over, though, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the unkempt style of his shaggy, white-blond hair. His eyes were ever piercing and hard, but before she could find herself getting lost in him like she'd once done, she chose to remain level and firm.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired, and though the question was straight to the point, Ella hadn't asked it with distaste, and her voice had come out soft.

The blond shrugged, as if him being there was entirely casual. "Came to see ya," he answered, his gaze raking over her petite form. "Ain't you leavin' tomorrow?"

Ella swallowed the forming lump in her throat. "Yes . . . early."

Another beat of silence.

She looked back at him again, trying to figure out exactly _why_ he was there. It couldn't just be because he had wanted to see her. No, Dallas always had a reason for everything that he did, as Ella had come to learn quite some time ago. Just because they had split up over a week ago didn't mean that she didn't know him, couldn't read him. He was a difficult and complex person, but he was just as human as she was, and Ella knew how to get through to him, for the most part. Still, just seeing him there in front of her, feeling his presence that close to her again, even after a week of not being together, Ella felt herself seeming to come back to life, her emotions surfacing one by one, even as she desperately tried to shove them aside.

Clearing her throat, she took a step forward. "I heard what you did . . . for Ponyboy, I mean."

Dallas scowled, tossing his cigarette butt away. "I didn't do it for him." His nose wrinkled as he eyed her critically. "So tomorrow, huh? Bright and early . . ." There was a cool sound to his voice. "Good for you, kid. New York is somethin'."

"So I hear," she responded with, and then a small smile crossed her lips. "I'm looking forward to it."

Even though he had just finished a cigarette, Dallas found that he wanted another one. Just looking at Ella right then made him feel antsy, and he could tell that she wasn't exactly thrilled about seeing him, either. He wasn't even sure what in the hell prompted him to want to see her, but he figured he ought to say something to her before she was off. There was something different about her, he noticed. Perhaps it was the determined look in her eyes, or maybe it was the way she was holding herself. No longer was she flushed and nervous looking, even though he could tell that his presence being there with her wasn't making her feel all that hot. He didn't care, though. He just wanted to see her, say his peace, and then get the hell out of dodge. Dallas wasn't the type of guy who got sentimental or emotional, or any of that jazz, but he figured he owed Ella something, mediocre as it was.

He licked his lips. "Got your shit taken care of, then?"

A nod. "Yeah . . . I just . . ." She paused, looking around them. "I reckon that I'll miss Tulsa while I'm gone, but . . . I think it's for the best that I go, you know?" What she really meant was that she really did want a new start, and if Berkeley was the answer to that, then she was going. She remembered Dallas telling her that she should take the chance while she had it, before it was too late. He had wanted her to go and make something of herself while she had the opportunity to do so. Shaking her head, Ella turned her attention back to Dallas, looking at him as he looked at her. "So, what are you going to do with yourself?" It was casual enough, she guessed.

Dallas smirked. "Told you I'm leavin' as soon as I can, and well"—He stepped down onto the pavement so that he was only a few inches from her—"that's exactly what I'm doin'." At Ella's bewildered look, he merely continued. "Got quite the surprise today. Yeah, my parole officer hauled my ass down to the station to tell me that my probation is over. So that's it, sweets, I'm officially a free man."

Something in Ella stirred, but she fought it back. "That's great, Dallas," she replied, voice seeming to tremble a little. "I'm . . . I'm really happy for you."

He gave her an odd look, but shrugged her comment off. "Sure."

Unsure of what to really say after that, Ella took a step forward, but then froze, her eyes darting around them as if she were suddenly embarrassed, only that wasn't it. She wasn't sure why, but just standing there with Dallas like that was causing her to feel too much all at once. She could feel him looking at her, too, but he was more composed than she was. She knew that she loved him, but there was no way that she could be with him, not then at least. Dallas was set in his ways, and he was ready to get out of Tulsa and travel while doing his own thing. Ella was still figuring things out for herself, even though she, too, had a plan and knew what she wanted.

She bit her lip. "It's getting pretty late."

Dallas wanted to snort, but didn't. "Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself, Ella."

She watched him move past her, but before he could get too far, her voice rang out in the darkness as she called to him, her form rushing to stop him before he could make it to the truck. She was breathing heavy, eyes broad and pupils dilated, and when she touched his arm, she nearly felt as though she was about to throw her arms around him and kiss him like she desperately wanted to. Only she didn't, and silly though it was, she presented his ring to him, the one he had given her when they became official.

"I thought that . . . you would like this back," she said, cheeks tinting.

Dallas simply quirked an eyebrow, and then shrugged. "Keep it."

"But—"

"Ella," he said, tone clipped as he cut her off. "Keep it." He climbed into the truck as she took a step back, the engine roaring to life. She could only stare at him, though, her body floored with various feelings she had been attempting to push aside for over a week. Dallas rolled the window down and nodded to her. "You better git on inside, yeah?"

In the darkness, he couldn't see her tears. "Yeah. I—" But she shook her head, deciding that it was better to leave certain things unsaid. "You take care of yourself, too, Dallas."

She gave him a small, barely noticeable smile before turning on her heel and heading back onto her property and to the porch. She only glanced back one time before stepping inside the house, the door closing softly behind her. Pressing her back against the frame, Ella let the tears spill from her eyes and rain down her cheeks, the ring still clutched in her hand. But there was one thing that Ella had come to find in her time spent with Dallas Winston, and that was the fact that she was free.

Six months. Six months had changed everything. But for Ella Mitchell, being with Dallas Winston felt like freedom—and now that she was officially on her own, she had that freedom all to herself.

Outside, Dallas waited until he saw Ella's bedroom light turn on, before he pulled away.

 _Far away from your trouble and worry  
_

 _You belong somewhere you feel free  
_

 _You belong somewhere you feel free_

* * *

 **And that's a wrap, y'all!**

 **Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and for all of the encouragement on this story! Your positivity, feedback, and interest has kept me going, and I couldn't have done it without you guys! I appreciate each and every one of you so very much, and you have my sincerest gratitude for sticking with me throughout this story!**

 **Until next time,**

 **—Cat**


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